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A 



THE SHAFT IN THE SKY 


JOHN TEMPLE GRAVES, Jb. 



V 


THE 

SHAFT IN THE SKY 

BY 

JOHN TEMPLE GRAVES, Jr. 




NEW YORK 

GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 



COPYRIGHT, 1923, 

BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 




A 


/ V 

A 



©C1A696665 • 



THE SHAFT IN THE SKY. I 


PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 



MAR -5 ’23 


V" 



To 

MY FATHER 


\ 


“These are the men who yesterday laid pen and plow 
aside to sail treacherous seas and stride the scorched 
plains of France; who brought noble heritages and bright 
hopes to their country’s sacrificial pyre—brought them 
proudly, carelessly, joyfully. As they had faced life 
they faced death—with high hearts and clean hands. 
Now, my friends, they have come back, back from their 
Gethsemane, back from the grim borders of death — 
come with a new vision and a new faith. In the tortured 
brambles of Argonne, across the mud-run Flanders 
plains, athwart the mine-strewn furrows of the North 
Sea, they have encountered Death and something more, 
known immortal pain and something more . In the 
rockets* glow, in the flare of the guns, has come to them 
the vision of a new earth rising from the stench of the 
old. They have seen Democracy, bleeding, bruised, but 
saved from the quicksands; in the ebb and tide of battle 
they have seen the Angels of the Marne—and beyond 
and above, in the last dark hour, a new star rising over 
the nighttime of war! 

“The old order dies—and in this new dawn the world 
must turn to men like my young associates here. To 
these who have looked death in the face for their coun¬ 
try’s sake must now be entrusted their country’s political 
and spiritual life. . . .” 


Senator Calhoun at Essex. 



CONTENTS 


Part One 

PAGE 

NEW EARTH 13 


Part Two 


NEW HEAYEN 


147 











Part One: NEW EARTH 




























THE SHAFT IN THE SKY 

Chapter One 

r i FHERE was a legend of greatness about 
JL Commander Sturtevant. That he had been 
president of his class at Princeton, a Rhodes 
Scholar at Oxford in 1916, commander of an 
American destroyer in European waters during 
the war, and special naval attache to the Peace 
Commission at Paris in 1919—were things which 
might of themselves have been judged tangible 
evidence of greatness in a young man not yet in 
his twenty-ninth year. 

But greatness, after all, is rarely tangible, and 
Gilchrist Sturtevant’s greatness was a subtle, 
qualitative thing that had attached to him from 
the very beginning. It may have been no more 
than his tendency to speak of such collective ab¬ 
stractions as “The People of America,” “The 
Spirit of Humanity,” “The Laboring Man,” 
“The Enlightened Opinion of the World.” It 
may have been only a certain dignity that came 
from the combination of a total lack of humor 

with a rugged face and a tall, rather gallant 

13 


14 


The Shaft in the Sky 

figure. It may even have been his own habit of 
feeling himself great and acting on the pre¬ 
sumption. 

He impressed big men—men of affairs like 
George White. Also he impressed Hugh Coth¬ 
ran who knew him better than anyone else did. 
With men of importance—like Mr. White—it 
was a certain poise and completeness of facial 
expression, a controlled exaltation of speech, and 
a pleasant lack of self-consciousness or abash¬ 
ment, that made the impression. With Hugh, 
who was young, it was perhaps his friend’s firm 
jaw, uncompromising gray eyes and distinguished 
crop of close-curled hair. Or it may have been 
the fact that Sturtevant was so complete an 
antithesis of Hugh himself. 

In Washington greatness is kept in its place. 
The city is too familiar with greatness and the 
spectacle of dissolving greatness to be either naive 
or appreciative. Which may explain why Sturte¬ 
vant was not a success during the winter he spent 
in the Capital with Hugh before the war. At 
this time, of course, he had only the legend and 
none of the later tangible indicia of greatness, 
and it was Hugh’s popularity alone which 
“floated” his friend. To the younger set, the 
debutantes and dancing men, Sturtevant was 
merely a somber, humorless, decidedly formal 
chap who happened to be Hugh Cothran’s friend. 



New Earth 15 

To be Hugh Cothran’s friend was to be the 
friend of a complete Gascon. “A Gascon,” said 
an amateur lexicographer, “is one to whom little 
things mean so much and big things so little that 
he has always in reserve the capacity for making 
a perfect fool of himself—or of running himself 
gallantly to death in a cause not worth the run¬ 
ning. Cyrano was a Gascon, and d’Artagnan!” 
The distinguishing feature seemed to be an al¬ 
together unreasonable .standard of values. For 
example, there was Hugh’s reputation at the club. 
His motive in living at a club, he said, was that 
in case of accident or death the newspapers 
might speak of him as a “well-known, local club¬ 
man.” “Sporting, you know—flavor of cards 
and wine—Major Pendennis and all that.” The 
sporting effect (which was internal rather than 
external) was spoiled to an extent, it is true, by 
the shockingly domestic habits of some of his fel¬ 
low-clubmen—middle-aged bachelors who retired 
at nine, rose at six, and had bottles of milk left at 
their doors in the morning. Nothing racy or 
“clubman” about milk bottles, surely! To these 
gentlemen Hugh was a nuisance who sang in his 
bath and clicked his typewriter at profane hours 
of the night. They suspected him too of going 
a pace; he was overheard ordering breakfast in 
bed on several occasions, and during one week he 
had been seen in a dinner coat on five successive 



16 The Shaft in the Shy 

evenings. Often there were guests in his room 
and he could be heard calling for vichy and ice; 
afterwards boisterous laughter would sound from 
the transom. His telephone was constantly in 
use, generally on frivolous service. 

Before the war came and he went abroad as a 
Junior Lieutenant on destroyer service, Hugh had 
been a reporter on the Washington Courier. In 
his initial career with the navy he was handi¬ 
capped because, in spite of his height, his physical 
appearance was strikingly unmilitary. Clear 
forehead, thoughtful, roving eyes, and rounded, 
rather feminine features surmounting a chin 
which appeared weak until the profile showed ’it 
firm on an unexpectedly mature jaw. ’The mouth 
too was the same contradiction of weakness and 
strength—a play of white teeth under full, slight¬ 
ly flattened*lips which spoke for humor, sensitive¬ 
ness, obstinacy, shyness, and a great burden of 
imagination. 

To the failure of Hugh’s efforts for the ac¬ 
ceptance of # Sturtevant by his friends during 
the winter before the war there was one excep¬ 
tion. This exception, however, represented a 
more surprising and notable success than even 
Hugh had hoped for. 

The activities of a social season among Wash¬ 
ington’s younger set are often focused, in fact 


New Earth 


17 


if not in theory, upon a single debutante. This 
winter the debutante was Alice Deering. For 
good looks, for family and fortune, for petulancy, 
charm and ruthlessness, her name led all the rest. 
She was so popular she could despise popularity, 
so well-born the lowliest might pay her court if 
he offered something novel, so venturesome that 
no consequence halted her unless it were boredom, 
and so thoroughly provided for in her grand¬ 
father’s last testament that every purchaseable 
thrill was hers for the asking. She adored Hugh 
because he never fell in love with her and because 
there was a certain amused, carefree indifference 
in his manner suggestive of something shy and 
inviolate held in reserve. His pliant will and easy 
imagination drew her or followed her into con¬ 
stant new pastures, and always with an aroma of 
spiritual health that appealed to the essentially 
healthy in herself. 

It was her own social waywardness which at¬ 
tracted her first to Gilchrist Sturtevant, Here 
was a “great young man” whom no one seemed 
able to get along with! A woman-hater, Hugh 
said—that was a challenge to vanity, a feather to 
tickle the curiosity of a young woman whose spe¬ 
cialty was the unusual. She let Hugh talk of him, 
listened to certain exalted abstractions attributed 
to the great young man—and yawned—and re¬ 
membered. One night in February she brought 


18 


The Shaft in the Sky 

him home with her from Chevy Chase after a 
dance, sat him down on a broad divan to watch 
the death of a woodfire, plucked thoughtfully at 
her corsage bouquet, tossed thumbfulls of rose 
petals upon him—and bared her immortal soul. 
The chicanery of the thing was of itself, surely, 
proof that she had no soul; at any rate the “im¬ 
mortal” one she bared was second hand—it was 
indeed Gilchrist’s own bag of phrases which she 
had caught and remembered from Hugh’s con¬ 
versations and was now offering to the author 
himself. The author tvas successfully duped. 
He acclaimed the phrases but failed to suspect 
the source. He was entranced. Here, in the 
very core of the social inanities he had come to 
despise, was a woman who thought of life as he 
did, whose social and political reactions were his 
own, who could feel deeply and dare greatly! 
Here was one who scorned as he did this little 
Washington world where love was only a name 
on a brass pocketpiece to be passed from hand 
to hand in exchange for excitement or kisses or 
for mere animal joy at the coin’s click! The fire 
burned low on the hearth; there were rose petals 
on his shoulder and in her lap; her soul kept pace 
with his own! 

It was chicanery, of course, but the very 
triumph of it intoxicated the artist. Dim, strange 
things she had never known before stirred in her 


New Earth 


19 


and she was truly moved when the woodfire died 
and Sturtevant rose to go. 

“I shan't kiss you to-night," she said, “I’ve 
kissed so many people." 


Chapter Two 



HEN there was the war. Sturtevant disap¬ 
peared fxom Alice Deering’s world into a 
vague place called “overseas” and new faces 
claimed her. Quickly the “dim, strange things” 
were forgotten’and the man who had stirred them 
lived only as an incident. Except for his letters 
she might have forgotten even the incident, in the 
parade of new sensations and half-loves that fol¬ 
lowed her through months of dilletante service 
with the Motor Corps. Once or twice she did 
remember some fragment of what she had felt on 
the rose-petal evening, and sat down to write him 
queer, half-cynical, half-patriotic letters in an 
unnatural style which she considered appropriate 
to what she was remembering. 

To Sturtevant these letters were sheerest music 
in the discords about him. Because his nature 
was intense and there was war and death every¬ 
where, because she was so truly the first woman 
in his life, he placed her topmost in his sky, clothed 
her in white, and gave her the same adoration he 
had hitherto given to such abstractions as Deity, 

Humanity, Courage. After the Armistice, while 

20 

J 

r 

i 












21 


New Earth 

he was in Paris with the Peace Commission, he 
began to write her letters which burned with a 
passionate idealism for Wilson and the League— 
letters which bored Alice and yet flattered her 
with their presumption that she understood what 
it was all about. 

“At Manchester/’ he wrote, “Wilson said all I 
had ever hoped would be said. With -a single 
speech he assumed the leadership of liberalism 
all over the world. To-day, with more power 
than a Caesar, he stands at Paris—the first great 
Internationalist, the only man to accomplish the 
ideals of this victory. He is type of the new era. 
The world is exalted and leans on the American 
President to manifest its mood . . . The sun is 
rising on America, on mankind ... a finer lot 
of men to work with . . . a woman like you 
to love . 

In March the Commander came home. For 
the moment, at least, Alice had forgotten him 
altogether. The reason was Blaine Todd, a naval 
aviator, who could play delightfully and make 
love with a nonchalance which demanded nothing 
of her. 

Yet Sturtevant was a distinguished figure, she 
discovered, more than ever the “great young 
man” now that the newspapers had lauded his 
work at Paris and certain exploits in the North 


22 


The Shaft in the Sky 

Sea. Perhaps, after all, Blaine Todd might be 
the fortune hunter Hugh called him! At any 
rate he was the sort of aviator whose only flights 
had been from an office chair on F Street by day 
to the upper ether of fashion and wealth by night! 
An even more important thing was that his serv¬ 
ice stripes were white, and she really must have 
the gold ones of foreign service just now—they 
were being worn! 

So she reproached the Commander for not 
writing oftener and was sweetly proprietary. 
She talked to him a little of the League and ad¬ 
vised him to go into politics (which, she had 
learned from Hugh, was what he wanted to be 
advised to do). Night after night throughout 
the spring months she exhibited his golden 
chevrons at country clubs and cabarets, per¬ 
mitting him to make love to her but adroitly fore¬ 
stalling talk of marriage or engagement. Mar¬ 
riage, she considered rather a middle-class habit! 

Other heroes returned; the gold stripes multi¬ 
plied, and finally, in spite of an occasional return 
of those vague things she had experienced on the 
rose-petal evening, she began to find herself un¬ 
mercifully bored. Her “great young man” had 
no flippancy or nonchalance; he didn’t know how 
to play, couldn’t make love as she liked it. What 
was worse, he was really in love and his intensity 


New Earth 


23 


made him a sort of perpetual conscience that 
demanded a side of her she feared and disliked. 

She began to tolerate him, to flirt with other* 
gold stripes, to contrive little devises that would 
hurt him and yet hold him. She enjoyed bringing 
him into groups or occasions in which he was 
wholly out of place—and making herself the life 
of the group, the wine of the occasion. One night 
in May she drove him in her red Stutz out to 
Arthur Herrick’s party at the Purple Iris. It 
maddened her that he insisted on talking politics 
all the way—she was sorry she had ever men¬ 
tioned the League. Mr. George White, it seemed, 
had offered him the Democratic nomination for 
Congress from the Seventh District of his state,' 
and he could talk of nothing else: 

“White’s reactionary, of course/’ he was say¬ 
ing earnestly, his head thrown back in occasional 
emphasis, “but he’s boss of Essex County. He 
has the borough in his pocket and I can use him. 
No man with as much money as that, I’m ready to 
admit-” 

“Ready to admit,” she mocked sweetly. He 
used the expression so frequently it irritated her 
beyond measure. 

“Sorry,” he laughed, “making speeches again, 
I guess. It’s a fact though—the voters up 
there-” 

“That was Blaine Todd,” she interrupted ex- 




24 The Shaft in the Sky 

citedly as a rickety Dodge passed them, “was 
Arthur driving—did you see?” 

“I don’t know,” he said, hurt as he had often 
been hurt lately at her lack of interest. “Blaine’s 
an old beau of yours, isn’t he?” 

She decided that she did not like the type of 
man who said “beau.” 

“He prefers a silver ‘bow,’ ” she snorted, 
“Myrtis Bayne has him for the moment—her 
mother owns the mint or something.” 

“You mean he wants to marry money?” he said 
so simply she laughed. 

“Arthur writes stunning poems,” she con¬ 
tinued, “his newest one is to me, you know.” 

Of all men in Washington Sturtevant most de¬ 
spised Arthur Herrick. He despised his exotic 
poetry, his habit of getting drunk, his slinking 
sentimentality, his pretense of intellectualism, 
his lack of any other profession than poetry and 
gambling. He did not know that Arthur had re¬ 
cently forgotten his latest love to discover for 
Alice and proclaim to her an unparalleled pas¬ 
sion. 

At dinner, later, Sturtevant had the privilege of 
seeing the poet grow a little drunker than he had 
ever been before. Perhaps it was Arthur’s sense 
of the responsibilities devolving upon a host. He 
drank so much that he more than “paralleled” his 
lately avowed passion, and the poetry and abandon 


New Earth 


25 


with which he made love to Alice in the garden 
after dinner were altogether refreshing to her 
after Sturtevant’s intensity and Blaine Todd’s 
nonchalance. Toward the end of the evening he 
fell over a banister and had to be fished out of a 
honeysuckle vine by Gilchrist and Blaine. 

At three o’clock they began to go home. When 
Gilchrist came out of the coat room he found 
Alice tete-a-tete with Arthur in a corner., 

“Are you coming now?” he said. 

“In two minutes,” she nodded. 

He waited ten minutes on the veranda with 
Blaine and Myrtis, and then returned. 

“In a moment, Gilchrist,” she begged nicely, 
patronizing him with a smile when she saw he 
was exasperated. Arthur was holding her hand. 

“I’ll wait for you in the car,” he said, letting 
the screen door bang. 

He walked out to the road, climbed in the Stutz 
and lit a cigarette. He was sore at heart and 
more tired than he could remember ever having 
been before. He would never understand these 
people, or Alice! It was unbearable—to hang 
about a whole evening watching the greedy ap¬ 
preciation she gave whatever new sensation this 
Herrick chap provided! Of course he could ac¬ 
cuse her of no disloyalty for she had never pre¬ 
tended to be loyal, had no conception of loyalty! 
Seated in her red Stutz with the dull morning 



26 


The Shaft in the Sky 

stars above him, he permitted resolves and reac¬ 
tions to crystallize which had been accumulating 
over many days and nights. How infinitely 
weary he was—weary of the effort to make her 
fit the dream he had carried overseas, bitter at 
the constant compromise, ashamed of the excuses 
he had been making to himself for her! Yes, he 
was ready to give her up! He owed it to his self- 
respect ! 

Fifteen minutes passed before she came run¬ 
ning down the path to him. “Oh, Gilchrist,” she 
whispered impishly, looking back at the Inn, “will 
you drive the car in! I’ll meet you at the house.” 

“Why?” he demanded roughly, throwing away 
his cigarette. 

“Well—there’s going to be a house-party at 
the Durand’s and Arthur wants to talk about it* 
I’m driving in with him.” 

He tossed back his head as though he were 
making a speech. “You can’t do it,” he said, 
shortly, “I’m responsible for you here and Her¬ 
rick’s too drunk to drive.” 

She hadn’t really meant it. It was only another 
device to annoy her great young man. But this 
manner was quite intolerable. It made her sud¬ 
denly furious. She decided angrily that she 
would go in with Arthur—drive the Dodge her¬ 
self! Gilchrist had been insufferably stupid all 
evening—and now this tone with her! 


New Earth 27 

“I hardly think you’re any more responsible for 
me than Arthur is,” she said, coolly, “I don’t 
need a nurse. If you won’t take the Stutz in 
Blaine will—he wants to drive Myrtis anyhow.” 

He was very white and the muscles under his 
cheekbones assumed a queer, lumpy prominence. 
This would be the end—-yes—but, by God, it 
should be no weak one! He had always com¬ 
manded; he had never been beaten! He’d have 
his way now—the young fool was drunk but that 
wasn’t the point! 

“You’re coming with me”, he said, “I won’t 
have it.” 

“We’ll see,” she replied hotly, and turned up 
the path. 

In a moment he was out of the car and had 
overtaken her. “Stop!” he ordered, seizing her 

arm. 

She wrenched herself free. “You fool,” she 
said, black eyes snapping, “go home!” 

He picked her up quickly in both arms, stag¬ 
gered a little for balance, and walked with her 
back to the Stutz. Her clenched fist struck him 
once on the cheek with all her might and then she 
made no further resistance. He placed her in 
the car, climbed into the driver’s seat and started 
•the engine. His cheek was bleeding where one 
of her rings had clawed the flesh. 

On the drive in she sat up straight as a corseted 


28 


The Shaft in the Sky 

nun, silent as a shadow, and stared doggedly 
ahead. Gilchrist did not open his mouth. At 
her door he helped her out, said good-night, and 
walked away. 

Her head reeled. The world reeled. She sat 
down on the bottom stair at the library door, dry¬ 
eyed, white-lipped, shaking with actual nausea. 
Given opportunity, she could have killed him at 
this moment without a qualm. He dared! He had 
laid hands on her! Beaten her with brute force! 
The slow fury she felt was no mere gust‘of tem¬ 
per—she would hate him to-morrow and a year 
from to-morrow! In half an hour she had grown 
old! Everything in her life seemed changed! 
It was revolution—nothing would be the same 
again! When she remembered that she had let 
him go without a word of this she was glad! It 
was not a matter for words! 


Chapter Three 

r J next day Sturtevant vanished from 

Washington with Hugh for a week at his 
little camp in Essex County. A few days later 
Alice left for the Durand house-party at Eliza¬ 
bethtown where she lost no time in making it 
known that her present temper was a disagreeable 
one. 

“For heaven’s sake, Deering,” Henry Durand 
begged when she slid immodestly out of the big 
Chandler in front of the Elizabethtown Drug 
Store before he could halt at the curb, “these 
people know me. You’re a regular hoyden to¬ 
day !” 

“Your fault, little boy,” she grimaced, turning 
to watch her reflection in the store window, “you 
wouldn’t let me drive, you threw away the chew¬ 
ing gum-” 

“And removed your feet from the wind¬ 
shield, yes. You don’t seem to have any respect 
for this town.” 

Henry was two years her junior but in dignity 
and sense he deemed himself infinitely her senior. 

“If you weren’t a darned good looking girl 

29 



30 


The Shaft in the Sky 

people wouldn’t stand for you—you’re pretty 
nearly impossible anyhow,” he decreed, stalking 
moodily ahead of her into the drug store. 

She drank three Coca Colas and displeased the 
clerk by smoking cigarettes and saying “damn” 
very audibly when she spilled a fourth glass. 
Henry’s embarrassed glance at the druggist tried 
to explain that this was an unusual situation. 
When he finally got her back in the car his silence 
was massive and, he hoped, eloquent. He drove 
to Woodlawn at a pace he had recently decided 
was fast enough to be manly without being spec¬ 
tacular. 

Woodlawn was the country estate of Henry’s 
father, ex-Secretary of War Durand. In Wash¬ 
ington Durand was a name to conjure by. So¬ 
cially it was a synonym for the top. Public of¬ 
fice as a social asset is like wine and mellows with 
age. Members of an existing cabinet are, from 
the nature of things, on probation, with a sus¬ 
picion of middle-class origin to overlive; but to 
have a cabinet flavor in one’s past or a cabinet 
limb on the family tree is worth a thousand so¬ 
cial graces. Of course there must be a million 
dollars somewhere, but the Durands had had 
money long before they acquired the cabinet 
flavor. No wonder fashionable Washington 
clamored at the great iron gates of Woodlawn. 
To be able to say “when my daughter was at the 


New Earth 31 

Durand’s last summer” was a Sesame to open any 
and all social doors. 

“Let me out here,” Alice ordered as the Chand¬ 
ler swung by the lower lawns. When Henry 
paid no attention she turned off the ignition and 
vaulted out before the car stopped. 

At the tennis courts she found the rest of the 
party. “Hello, Deering,” said Henry’s sister, 
Ruth, “where’s Hen?” Ruth was a junior at 
Vassar. She was a compact, sun-burned, busi¬ 
nesslike individual. 

“Horrid little boy! I don’t care where he is.” 
Alice’s face was flushed and angry. 

“Oh, look at her, Arthur—look at the poison 
scorpion—isn’t she beautiful!” Blaine Todd 
teased, pinching her cheek. 

“You have nice eyes, Blaine,” she said without 
smiling, “I’ll pick them out if you touch me again., 
Has Hugh come?” 

“Hugh Cothran? He isn’t coming.” 

“Isn’t coming!” She had counted on Hugh as 
the only man in the world she felt like being nice 
to. 

“Mater’s just had a wire,” Ruth explained, 
“he’s been asked to speak with Commander 
Sturtevant at Essex and some places.” 

All the color left her face and lights flashed 
like envenomed fireflies in her eyes. “Com- 


32 


The Sheif t in the Sky 

mander Sturtevant,” she said, as though the name 
had slipped out, “Oh!” 

“Your Commander, Deering,” Blaine winked. 

The heel of her shoe made a little gash in the 
tennis court surface. “Not in the least/’ she said, 
white with anger, and walked rapidly away 
towards the house. 

Here was a situation! Everyone stared after 
her. Her parting look at them had been as cold 
and controlled as that of some middle-aged 
royalty! 

“Why, what is it all about, Ruth?” Myrtis 
Bayne’s expressionless eyes were wide and she 
moistened her lips slightly with a foretaste of 
soul-filling gossip. 

“No one knows, I’m sure, old top,” said Ruth 
with an inflection carefully arranged to give the 
impression that she did know. 

“Who is this Sturtevant chap?” Arthur Her¬ 
rick demanded suspiciously, “she brought him 
to my party.” 

“Hugh’s best friend.” Ruth was reinforcing 
her position as one who might explain but would¬ 
n’t, “Hugh adores him. He’s running for Con¬ 
gress from this district.” 

“Running for Congress! How old is he?” 
Statecraft was, after all, more picturesque than 
poetry, and Arthur’s vague jealousy increased at 
the intelligence. 


New Earth 


33 


“Twenty-nine,” she guessed correctly, “Hugh 
calls him a great young man—says people like 
Sturtevant are going to sum up the war for this 
country.” As a junior at college she welcomed 
conversation of this kind; it identified her with a 
sort of intelligenzia. 

Arthur acted boredom and sauntered off 
towards the house. He scented an emotional in¬ 
terview with Alice. 

“Why the conversation?” asked Henry, hap¬ 
pening up quietly. The well-bred man, he consid¬ 
ered, was quiet in all things. With one exception 
Henry’s status with his sister’s guests was an 
armed neutrality. It embittered him that a man 
better equipped with a sense of the fitness of 
things than any of them should be treated merely 
as Ruth’s younger brother. 

“If you ask me,” he said (his complaint was 
that no one did ask him), “I think Sturtevant’s 
the next Congressman from this district. So 
does Dad. I’m driving to Essex to-morrow to 
hear him.” 

“I’ll probably go with you, Henry,” said Ruth 
sweetly. She was irritated at the inconsequence 
of the interruption. 

“Not a chance, old girl—politics! Can’t be 
bothered with a lot of women!” 

“What women are bothering you, Hen, old 
top?” said a spirited new voice. 


34 


The Shaft in the Sky 

Blaine Todd looked sourly at the fresh arrival 
who was cooling a very warm and very aristo¬ 
cratic brow with the flat of a mashie. Had her 
golf clubs, of course! Merely because he hap¬ 
pened to have the amateur record for the Chevy 
Chase course he was expected to spoil his game 
for the next two hours with a girl who held no 
particular part in his wholly definite scheme of 
things! Hadn’t she done eighteen holes already! 
No getting around the woman! Wanted to im¬ 
prove her golf! 

It was not that Cecilia Lee ever demanded. 
There was nothing domineering about this deli¬ 
cate-featured girl who carried her head like a 
thoroughbred horse. The secret of her claim 
upon others was her passion for wanting and her 
seriousness about it. Whatever Cecilia wanted 
had a knack of seeming important. Luckily she 
wanted very little—except that life should be 
easy and pretty and should never strike too deep. 
The seriousness was never offensive, either, be¬ 
cause it was overlain with a light little trick of 
whimsy which tempered her self-consciousness 
and relieved the lack of humor. 

Henry adored Cecilia, phlegmatically. Now he 
put his case to her- 

“Ruth wants to tag along to-morrow when 
Sturtevant and Hugh speak at Essex. I r m not 
going to take any females—positively.” 



New Earth 


35 


She balanced on tiptoes. “Hugh—speaking in 
public! Oh, that will be funny. We'll both go, 
Ruth, shall we!” 

Henry was frank if not fraternal. “Fine,” he 
said, “would you like to go?” 

Blaine Todd shouldered a golf bag grimly. 
“If you don't quit vamping Henry, I'll tell his 
mama, Cess,” he scowled. Henry shivered 
slightly and gave the golf champion an en¬ 
venomed side glance which, one felt, turned dis¬ 
comfiture to disdain. 

Alice was making discords on the drawing 
room piano when Arthur found her. 

“What a din. Wagner?” 

“No—it's Mrs. Durand. I had to get her out. 
She was talking to me.” 

“Where is she?” 

“Up-stairs—headache.” The pianist thumped 
three adjacent keys for a chord which explained 
her hostess' headache. 

Arthur's romances always began masterfully 
and ended abjectly. His hand dropped easily 
on the offending one at the keyboard. 

“I meant everything I said at the Purple Iris 
that night,” he murmured. 

“Of course. You always do. Tm busy now 

Arthur.” 


36 The Shaft in the Sky 

'‘What’s all this Sturtevant rumpus? Old 
stuff?” 

“No—I dislike him.” 

He drew a soft chord from the keys with 
graceful fingers. 

“Running for Congress!” he mused invitingly. 

“Running, yes, any fool can run.” 

“Mr. Durand thinks he’ll get it.” 

Alice sat up straight. “If I were a man—if I 
were in politics—I’d—I’d-” 

“What?” 

“I’d break him—yes—break him!” 

The poet smiled indulgence. “Why the heat? 
I believe you’re in love with him.” 

“Idiot!” she flashed angrily and prepared to 
go. He restrained her. 

“I didn’t mean that.” He looked thoughtful. 
“If you were a man—if you were in politics— 
damn it all, Alice, I believe you could upset any¬ 
body’s little plan.” 

“Oh, well—I’m not.” She was never at war 
with fate but was generally irritated at it. 

Arthur flattered her with more thought., 
“Women abroad do such things,” he reflected, 
“the French woman’s salon and the English 
woman’s week-end house-parties make political 
careers. Break them too. But women in this 
country aren’t well enough informed.” 



New Earth 37 

A pause while Alice travelled a long "distance 
and opened her eyes wide. 

“Oh, rot!” she said, absently, “I don’t believe 
foreign women are so well informed.” 

Alice Deering could be many things to many 
people. When the party assembled at dinner her 
bad temper was gone and she chose to be thirty 
and a woman of the world. She sat by Mr. Du¬ 
rand and bewitched him with her poised intelli¬ 
gence and humor. In fashionable Washington 
a sense of humor is rare and Alice’s was genuine. 
The old statesman played up gallantly and pleased 
himself with anecdotes of his portfolio in the 
nineties. He even told an amusing story ending 
“the Epistles were the wives of the Apostles” 
at which Mrs. Durand frowned and every one else 
roared. He had told the story at least once at 
every house-party any one could remember. 
Henry sat by Cecilia at the other end of the table; 
he fancied the two of them quite tete-a-tete and 
poured out details of a hunting trip he had taken 4 
in May. Cecilia looked deep attention but her 
mind was hopping from idea to idea remote from 
Henry and his hunting. 

Coffee was served in the adjoining room. Ruth 
and Cecilia talked the trip to Essex while Blaine 
and Myrtis drummed a ragged “Haunt of the 
Witches ” at the piano with noisy double bassos. 


38 


The Shaft in the Shy 

Alice begged the artists to stop “as Mrs. Durand 
has a headache.” Mrs. Durand had forgotten 
the origin of her headache and was pleased at 
the girl’s thoughtfulness. 

“Oh, Cess, what’s Hugh doing since he left 
the Navy?” Alice asked. 

“Washington correspondent for country news¬ 
papers—has about a million I think.” 

“Lovely! He’s always doing exciting things. 
Queer he never mentions it.” 

“Maybe you don’t give him a chance to talk 
about himself, old dear,” Cecilia suggested with 
malice. 

“Cat!” Alice hugged her and sauntered into 
the library. 

“Deering’s too sweet to-night—she’s up to 
something,” said Ruth. 

Blaine pranced up, hands clasped behind him, 
shoulders in revolution. 

“Come on Ruth, an old fashioned shimmy!” 

Ruth’s was not the build nor the temperament 
for this particular dance—but fashion is no re- 
spector of build or temperament. She set the 
Victrola going and joined Blaine. Her mother 
looked distressed—really, the garment was so in¬ 
timate ! 

“Ugly idea of motion, Mrs. Durand, isn’t it!” 
said Arthur settling himself beside her. “In- 



New Earth 


39 


vented by savages. Have you read ‘J oan and 
Peter’ ?” He was being quiet to-night. 

Blaine disappeared presently with Myrtis. 
Myrtis had two million in her own name. Of 
course she was cowlike—but, after all-! 

In the library behind a cigar and a newspaper 
Mr. Durand was confiding in himself. He was 
confessing that he was a good father and an ex¬ 
cellent story-teller. Enter Alice, humming 
Haunt of the Witches”, and settled on the big 
divan with one foot underneath her. She pulled 
a sofa cushion into her lap and patted it domes¬ 
tically. 

“Do you mind, Uncle John? They’re all so 
stupid in there.” She had always called him 
“Uncle John.” 

Mr. Durand put down his paper and looked at 
her almost timidly. 

“Good! But nothing is more stupid than an 
old man, I’m afraid.” 

“I’m older myself lately, I think. When I was 
a debutante it was different. I don’t know—I 
thought I’d be quite grown up by now.” 

The naive creature now addressing John 
Durand was altogether young; there was no trace 
of his cosmopolitan dinner partner. 

“I don’t believe you know how I admire you— 
its because you’ve really done things,” she con¬ 
tinued. 




40 


The Shaft in the Shy 

In the age of Victoria youth encountered age 
with respectful timidity but a more modern day 
has shifted the embarrassment to the elders. Mr. 
Durand almost blushed. “When you are as old 
as I am/’ he said, “you will have done many fine 
things yourself, Fm sure.” He caught himself 
wishing vaguely that his own daughter were 
as eager and fond as this lovely “adopted” 
niece. 

“Talk to me about something real, Uncle John,” 
she begged, “there are so many things—about 
democrats and republicans and all that.” 

The old man looked relieved; the Victorian 
balance was magically restored. “Politics are 
very interesting just now,” he said indulgently.. 

Her eye was on the ceiling, gravely. “We 
could begin here. Who is the mayor—or Con¬ 
gressman, is it—of this—er-” 

“Hodges. A republican. He’ll be opposed 
for re-election next fall by young Sturtevant on 
the democratic ticket. The appearance of a man 
of Sturtevant’s type at this time is interesting.” 
Mr. Durand nodded agreement with himself. 

The merest flicker in the black eyes indicated 
her satisfaction with the trend. “Will he win— 
Sturtevant ?” 

“I think he will, yes. But not without a fight.. 
There are factors which make it uncertain.” 

“Who would be against him, I wonder?” She 



41 


New Earth 

implied that opposition was wicked and incon¬ 
ceivable. 

“That depends. He is an idealist of the Wilson 
type. His views on reconstruction problems are 
rather er—advanced without being’ revolu¬ 
tionary. It is possible he may be left high and 
dry between two tides—the radical labor vote on 
one side and the rather desperate conservatism 
of men in his own party like George White on the 
other. You know White is the democratic leader 
in this state. What he says usually goes.” 

“George White! I know him—comes to 
mother’s dinners. A terrible old bear!” 

Not for years had John Durand found as eager 
an audience in his own home. He expanded. He 
toyed with ideas as new to himself as they were 
strange to Alice, formulating a theory of recon¬ 
struction problems with which he was infinitely 
pleased. Alice’s wrist watch registered an hour. 

“Gilchrist Sturtevant may make the same mis¬ 
take Woodrow Wilson has made. In his belief 
that the end of the war has brought a millenium 
within reach he may be ignoring—fatally—the 
principle of action and reaction. There is more 
confusion and restlessness and ugliness to-day 
than perhaps ever before. He believes the world 
is better than it was; the masses believe it ought 
to be better. And George White believes it is 
static and will never be better.” 


42 


The Shaft in the Sky 

“What do you believe ?” 

He hesitated. “The war cost us fifty years of 
progress/’ he said, “to save three thousand from 
a Prussian victory. As for Utopia—that comes 
by way of the heart.” 

Alice sighed, as though Utopia were the goal 
of all her concern. She was frightfully tired. 

“Its all wonderfully interesting. You’re good 
to talk to me, Uncle John—really—do you 

mind-” and the daintiest and most daughterly 

of kisses charmed the old man’s brow. 

The interview was ended. 

As she passed the drawing room Arthur was 
saying to Mrs. Durand, “Yes, the movies have 
driven literature into a corner. Modern novel¬ 
ists will confine themselves more and more to 
character development, spiritual experiences— 
things that can’t be photographed. I have always 
thought of the fiction writer as an historian 
of-” 

Alice made a face and slipped by. Upstairs 
in her own room she gathered pencil and paper 
and began to scrawl in a round positive hand: 

“People don’t give a damn about the League of 
Nations now. They have troubles of their own. 

“He’ll have to take sides in the coal strike. 
George White is president of a big coal company. 

“If he sticks to Wilsonism the masses will say 




New Earth 


43 


he is reactionary and the George White people 
will say he is a red. 

“Doesn’t believe in profiteers. Thinks High 
Cost of Living natural after a war. Won’t please 
public—want a victim. 

“Believes in closed shop (???) White NO. 

“George White is an honest boss. Believes in 
his system.” 

She folded this document carefully and tucked 
it away in her travelling case. On the floor by 
the bed were the halves of a photograph which 
had been torn in two. It was Sturtevant in naval 
uniform. She picked them up and put them away 
in the case. 


Chapter Four 


I7V5SEX, county seat of Essex County, was in 
X—/holiday dress on Grange Day. At the Fair 
Grounds there were ball games, horse-shoe pitch¬ 
ing tournaments and foot, horse and buggy races. 
As the Durand car passed the judges’ stand a 
pleasantly intoxicated farmer was announcing 
the time of the last race through a battered mega¬ 
phone. “That man’s a scoundrel,” said Henry, 
“the time he’s giving is two seconds better than 
the world’s record. Look at the old nag—I don’t 
see how she got around.” 

Placards on fences and telegraph poles an¬ 
nounced a mass meeting at the town hall. Gil¬ 
christ Sturtevant, Democratic candidate for Con¬ 
gress, would open his campaign. United States 
Senator Calhoun, the “little giant,” would speak 
in support of the nominee. 

“But why don’t they mention Hugh?” Cecilia 
asked. 

Henry began to understand why Cecilia had 
come. “Hugh’s a joke,” he said roughly, “rotten 
speaker.” 

The town hall was crowded already. Women 

44 


45 


New Earth 

and children were everywhere, eating popcorn and 
shouting at each other across the hall. Most of 
the men were on the back rows chewing tobacco 
and spitting sociably. The air was thick with the 
heavy animal odor of people who live out of doors. 

Henry left the girls in a corner to look for Alec 
Brown, chairman of the county committee. 

“This is terrible,’’ said Ruth, “Fm sorry we 
came.” 

“Oh, I like it.” Cecilia’s eyes were dancing, 
“such funny people. Fancy Hugh making a 
speech to them!” 

Henry returned with Mr. Brown who was all 
smiles and bows for the children of John Durand. 

“Well, well!” he exclaimed humping forward 
to shake hands, “I’m right glad you’ve come, 
ladies, that I am. It’s great speaking you’ll hear. 
Now we’ll just put you in the box over there. It’s 
the—er—millennium box they call it. I reckon for 
such distinguished visitors nothing’s too good!” 

“It’s very thoughtful of you, Mr. Brown,” said 
Cecilia, whose sporting blood was up. “And 
aren’t you going to sit with us ?” Politics was a 
great game! 

The old farmer politician was flattered. He 
straightened one shoulder and bowed profoundly. 

“Now that’s kind of you, right kind, yes. But 
I have my duties. Yes, my duties on the platform. 
I rather mistrust I must deny myself. A great 



46 


The Shaft in the Sky 

pleasure—yes, thank you, thank you.” With a 
consciousness of consummate gallantry he bowed 
himself away. 

In the box they had an opportunity to look over 
the audience and the stage. Mr. Brown’s com¬ 
mittee were already seated at the rear of the plat¬ 
form. In front were four vacant chairs for the 
speakers and the master of ceremonies. The lo¬ 
cal band—a trombone, a piano, and a drum—was 
tuning up. A “spontaneous” ovation was to greet 
the orators. 

“There’s George White,” said Henry, indicat¬ 
ing a rotund, melancholy individual with an ex¬ 
pressionless eye, “President of the Bloody Hollow 
Coal Company. Must have come up from Wash¬ 
ington. He’s boss of this state, you know. Guess 
its a cinch for Sturtevant. Ah—look!” 

The audience had hushed abruptly except for 
random voices, and the committee were looking 
off stage. A little flutter of commotion from the 
wings at the left and Chairman Brown entered, 
his whole bearing ponderous with the import of 
the occasion. After him came Senator Calhoun 
and Hugh Cothran—and last of all, the candi¬ 
date. Everyone rose immediately; there was 
sound everywhere, handclappings, hurrahs, 
stamping of feet. When the noise tired a little 
Chairman Brown nodded mightily, the band 
struck up “Dixie,” and the tempest of sound rose 



New Earth 


47 


again. Three times the watchful trombone lifted 
the dying applause in this manner to new life 
while the speakers stood bowing and smiling. The 
candidate waved his hand at intervals as if he 
were the best fellow in the world and felt boister¬ 
ously at home. Hugh Cothran was nervously 
putting his hands into his pockets and drawing 
them out again. He cleared his throat several 
times as though he were about to begin speaking. 
Recognizing the occupants of the “millennium” 
box, he looked consternation. 

“Ugh—he’s nervous!” Cecilia whispered and 
turned her head away. 

“Sturtevant has more dignity/’ said Ruth, 
“what.a strong face—he’s very good looking!” 

A signal from Chairman Brown and the band 
capitulated. Cecilia hated the silence that fol¬ 
lowed; Hugh was going to break down—she 
wished she hadn’t come! The three speakers sat 
down and Mr. Brown advanced down stage. 
Clearing his throat loudly and blowing his nose 
as one who sets about an Herculean operation, he 
began: 

“Lay-dees”—he rubbed his palms, rolled his 
eyes, and turned .to nod reassuringly at the other 
speakers—” and —gentle men.” An emphatic 
period. He bowed deeply as if applause had in¬ 
terrupted. “It is seldom—” he cocked his head 
wisely and sent one eye at the ceiling—“if ever— 


48 


The Shaft in the Shy 

I repeat—it is seldom if ever that the great coun¬ 
ty of Essex has been privileged to hear three 
gentlemen—speaking from the same platform— 

on the same occasion-” a pause drove home 

the tremendous coincidence—“three gentlemen of 
such great (another bow massively taken) dee- 
stinction ” He bowed twice rapidly and blew his 
nose. 

“What an old bore,” said Ruth. 

“He's charming,” Cecilia pleaded, “I never saw 
anyone like him.” 

For fifteen minutes Chairman Brown hurled 
his thunderbolts and planted his periods while the 
gentlemen he extolled sat in varying degrees of 
temper. Then Hugh caught a hopeful phrase— 
“it is my very great honor, therefore, to intrer- 
duce to you this afternoon—as the first speaker 
—"surely this was the end—“a man who—” he 
was off again! Hugh wiped the perspiration 
from his forehead; it would take at least fifteen 
minutes more to “man who” the Senator. 

Senator Calhoun, three yards from the thun¬ 
derbolts and periods, was a picture of repose. 
His bowed head bespoke deep and statesmanlike 
thought. He was snoring faintly. The Senator 
had not expected to speak first. It was his habit 
to find inspiration for his own speech in the re¬ 
marks of a predecessor. It was also his habit to 
take “forty winks.” Not the least of his talents 



New Earth 


49 


was a skill at napping any and everywhere with¬ 
out losing track of the transpiring event. 

A final sweep, a crowning flourish—and Chair¬ 
man Brown retired. The Senator rose quickly. 
There was an electric something about the “little 
giant.” He was less than five and a half feet tall, 
with a body symmetrically proportioned. In 
his close-fitting cutaway which accentuated the 
nervous energy of his movements, he promised 
velocity. His face was broad, with blunt features 
and the drooping nostril of the orator. Remov¬ 
ing his eye-glasses and resting one hand on his 
breast in a manner more deprecatory than dra¬ 
matic he began speaking in a low voice, without 
inflection. The back rows leaned forward to 
hear. His right knee was planted forward taut; 
the left one gracefully bent. But surely there was 
no fire in the man; he might have been chanting, 
so lifelessly came the words! The lifted head, 
the quiet manner, suggested something detached, 
distant. 

Yet those who were closer could see that his 
eyes were anything but distant. Small, steely 
gray, glittering, they were eyes of a man of 
action, an enthusiast, a fanatic even, but never a 
dreamer. Now he caught at some new series in 
the kaleidoscope of ideas racing through his mind; 
a quick, backward jerk of the torso launched him 
upon an altogether new elevation of thought and 


50 


The Shaft in the Sky 

sound. In a moment the press reporter below 
dropped his pencil in despair. The Senator was 
pouring out words, torrents picturesque, beauti¬ 
ful, masterfully alligned. There was never a 
drop nor pause, eagerly, ceaselessly they came in 
unbroken currents of sound. He made no ges¬ 
ture. The audience was his now from front rows 
to tobacco-spitters in the rear; they were fasci¬ 
nated with a suspicion that if once he hesi¬ 
tated or lowered his tone there would be apalling 
anti-climax, that he must hold the high, persistant 
pitch or stop. They gasped; it didn’t matter what 
he was saying—here was Sound, beautiful, arrest¬ 
ing, compelling Sound, Sound that cast a spell of 
excitement independent of Sense! The man was 
more than magnetic; he was hypnotic, holding 
himself no less than his audience in heroic trance. 
Now he reached the crest of his theme and ran it 

into musical, high intonation- 

“.Now, my countrymen, they have 

come back, back from their Gethsemane, back 
from the grim borders of death—come with a 
new vision and a new faith. In the tortured 
brambles of Argonne, across the mud-run Flan¬ 
ders plains, athwart the mine-strewn furrows of 
treacherous seas, they have seen death and some¬ 
thing more, known immortal pain and something 
more . . . ,. .. . they have seen a new earth ris¬ 

ing from the stench of the old ... a new 





New Earth 


51 


star hovering over the night time of war . . .” 

'‘He’s sweet, isn’t he,” Cecilia whispered, “It’s 
like going to church and the circus both at once. 
Ruth, I believe I’m crying.” 

“Oratory’s old fashioned,” said Ruth, “this is 
the age of fact—economic fact.” Her mark in 
Sophomore economics had been high. 

The speaker’s voice was soaring again to a final 
period— “. . . . When we falter on the portals 
of a new day, looking helplessly to old rules for 
guidance and finding that they no longer guide— 
is it not wisdom, is it not justice, is it not good 
counsel, to cast our lot with men like Gilchrist 
Sturtevant—men to whom the Almighty has 
given the faith and the youth and the resourceful¬ 
ness and the courage to lead His people to their 
Promised Land!” 

It was over. With a quick bow and shake of 
the head he sidled back into his chair and assumed 
again the repose of his first appearance. The ap¬ 
plause was thunderous; no need of the watchful 
trombone now. Even those who were inclined, 
like Ruth, to scorn the heroics of it were captive 
to the man’s utter simplicity of soul. To every¬ 
one he had brought something and the demonstra¬ 
tion ran itself into a weird hysteria. 

“Dad says he’s the most eloquent and mis¬ 
taken man in the Senate,” Henry shouted to Ce¬ 
cilia above the din. 


52 


The Shaft in the Sky 

“Could you dream he was like this,” she said, 
“he’s so sort of light at parties.” 

Order returned and Chairman Brown took 
command again, looking a little outclassed. He 
lost no time in presenting the next speaker. 

Hugh rose painfully, shocked at the very sound 
of his name. His heart was in his throat, chok¬ 
ing him. To Cecilia, who could not endure un¬ 
pleasantness, he was a sickening spectacle. She 
averted her eyes again. “It’s terrible,” she pro¬ 
tested, “after Senator Calhoun—he shouldn’t 
have come!” 

“Writes better than he speaks,” said Ruth, 
“he’ll make a mess of this.” 

He was standing with heels carefully together 
and hands gripped in agony behind him. In the 
forefront of his mind was a great hatred for the 
man who had provided this slim thing ‘in front 
of him as a speaker’s table. He felt naked, and 
thought hungrily of a massive stand to hide all of 
himself except his head. As for his voice—there 
was no use—it wouldn’t work! He cleared his 
throat in terror: 

“The Senator has said too much-” He hesi¬ 

tated. What the devil did Henry Durand mean 
bringing those girls over here! “—The North 

Sea wasn’t half as bad as this platform-.” A 

dangerous pause. He was desperately alone at a 
vital instant in a vast space! “-One of the 






New Earth 


53 


men whose courage he mentioned happens to be 
scared to death at this very moment!” 

He smiled nervously. A ripple of laughter and 
relief went over the audience; in his smile they 
found the cue to their man. There was something 
unqualified about it with all its shyness—it sug¬ 
gested interesting reserves and brought speaker 
and hearers into a sort of secret understanding. 
With better confidence he launched an amusing 
story which he had had no idea of reciting. More 
laughter told him the audience was his, was 
leagued with him to ignore his awkwardness. 
The rest was easy and in five minutes he had 
forgotten self-consciousness and was deep in his 
theme . . . 

"... I am asking you to send Gilchrist 
Sturtevant to Congress because you need him 
there. He believes in you; he has faith in your 
capacity to realize all the opportunities of recon¬ 
struction; he has himself the ability to help 
mightily in the task—the energy and courage to 
wage your battles, down your foes. I am for him 
because he is not for himself, because he doesn’t 
think of politics as a game but as a summons, be¬ 
cause public office is for him another word for 
public service. I shan’t tell you what he stands 
for because I don’t know. I don’t believe he 
knows himself. I don’t believe any of us know 
what we stand for just yet. As the Senator has 


54 


The Shaft in the Sky 

said, we are at the frontiers of a new era and 
the men we choose to lead us now must be pioneers 
—with the daring of pioneers—with the resource¬ 
fulness and faith . . 

“Oh-h—splendid,” Cecilia whispered so loudly 
that Henry frowned. 

“Vague,” said Ruth. 

Ten minutes longer Hugh continued, at times 
with sudden lapses into awkwardness and again 
with the fervor and humility of genuine elo¬ 
quence. When he had said all he had to say, em¬ 
barrassment settled on him again and his 
peroration was as painful as his start. 

Before the applause died he left the platform 
and joined the Durand party. Henry shook his 
hand warmly. 

“But what about the issues, Hugh?” said Ruth, 
“for instance Article Ten of the League—how do 


“Jove, I left them in my other coat!” The or¬ 
deal was over and he felt amiably flippant. “Its 
all right, though—Gik’s bursting with ’em. Takes 
’em from thin air. Look at the old boy—why, 
his pockets are full of issues.” 

“Hugh—ridiculous!” Cecilia’s eyes triumphed 
at him from the dark corner of the box. 

“Cess—beautiful!” he countered, and seized 
her hand joyously. She looLed confused and 
withdrew the hand. 



New Earth 


55 


“Your man of issues has made a great issue 
with Deering,” said Ruth, “she’s in a disgusting 
humor.” 

“Gad—has he! He won’t say a word!—Prob¬ 
ably denounced her in good Saint Paul style. 
Poor old Buccaneer—he built seven heavens over 
her and I suppose the dear desperado spilled 
them. Remember how miserable he was chasing 
around Saint Marks and the Club de Vingt with 
her ? The lad imagined the two of them munch¬ 
ing ambrosia and gamboling on the green. Alice 
is an empty headed little devil though, isn’t she 
Cess!” 

“She adores you—Hugh. How ungrateful!” 

“Adores her adorable self—God bless her!” 
said Hugh. 

“Alice is a child—never grown up,” Henry 
volunteered. 

“Oh, listen—you were young once yourself, old 
Mariner,” Cecilia teased. To which Henry could 
think of no reply; he was embarrassed with sud¬ 
denly conceived hero-worship for Hugh. 

“For heaven’s sake shut up—Gilchrist is speak¬ 
ing,” said Ruth. 

“Look—oh, look—the Senator’s asleep,” Ce¬ 
cilia nudged Hugh, delighted. 

“I say, he is at that. Bad example—I’ll bring 
him here.” Hugh left hastily as the “little 
giant’s” head swung violently sidewise. 


56 


The Shaft in the Sky 

Sturtevant had finished his opening remarks. 
He made a very presentable figure, tall, well- 
groomed, with a slight stoop which Ruth thought 
both scholarly and graceful. He seemed taller 
than Hugh because he carried himself better 
and his clothes were a better fit. His occasional 
gestures were natural and gave an impression of 
control. To Senator Calhoun an audience was a 
woman—to be lured with sweet speech; to Hugh 
it was a supernaturally dreadful Specter which 
might, with luck, dissolve itself into a charitable 
Confusion. But to Sturtevant it was an adver¬ 
sary—to be skillfully approached, diplomatically 
disarmed, struck in its weak spots, conquered: 

“. . . never a time when men were more 
ready to subordinate everything to the prevention 
of war. I believe we face an opportunity like 
none that has come before or will come again— 
an opportunity to organize the world not into a 
debating society, not into an apologetic Tribunal, 
but into an effective, supreme League of Nations. 
I believe that in the President’s Covenant is real¬ 
ized all that is possible to-day in the balance of 
idealism with fact. I will hear any man’s criti¬ 
cism of this Covenant and remind him that his¬ 
tory is not made in a day and that the bird in the 
hand has a market value of nine in the bush . . . 

“. . . I know, my friends, there are other 
things whose importance may seem more imme- 


New Earth 


57 


diate than international organization. High 
prices of necessities, the reorganization of our 
railway systems, the alien radical, Mexico, the 
still unsettled matter of prohibition, the balance 
of interests between classes, the right of labor 
to organize for bargaining-” 

Noises in the rear of the hall were diverting the 
speaker’s attention. A towering, collarless figure 
was trying to make himself heard. Cries of “set 
down, set down!—put ’im out!” over which the 
man’s voice rose- 

“I’ll ask ye a question, Mister Sturtevant—and 
I’ll ask it to Mister White, too, settin’ behind 


Sturtevant raised his hand for quiet. *‘A11 
right,” he said, “what is it?” 

The man was all eyes—flaming, insistent eyes. 

“Ye spoke about classes—I’ll ask ye this. 
What classes is there except the class of them thet 
work and the class of them thet don’t work?” 

Mr. White was annoyed. He cleared his throat 
slightly and beckoned a thick-set, over-dressed in¬ 
dividual from the rear of the platform. 

“McLanahan—from our shop, isn’t it?” he 
mumbled. 

The other nodded. 

“Get him out!” 

As the over-dressed one started from the plat¬ 
form the coal baron beckoned him back. “No 





58 


The Shaft in the Sky 

rough stuff, Hicks—this time. Tell him his 
daughter hasn’t got that school job for life.” 

Sturtevant was answering McLanahan 
thoughtfully- 

“-in one sense, my friend, I am ready to ad¬ 

mit there are the two classes you mention—and 
for the class who live on other men’s toil, reap¬ 
ing where they have not sown, gambling with the 
misfortunes or necessities of their fellows for a 
profit they have not earned, I have as little sym¬ 
pathy as you.” 

Mr. White cleared his throat so loudly that the 
Durand party in the box turned to look. 

“He doesn’t like that,” Henry whispered. 

“No wonder,” said Ruth, “its out and out so¬ 
cialism—Sturtevant doesn’t know what he’s say- 

• yy 

mg. 

“-but for the other class—the workers—-I 

have a bigger definition than yours, perhaps. 
There are brains at work as well as hands, my 
friend; quality as well as quantity—and there 
are variations in the value and social importance 
of it. I want you to know that there are work¬ 
ers who build and workers who destroy. There 
are self-styled patriots, for instance, whose work 
divides nation from nation and plunges worlds 
into war. There are so-called statesmen whose 
work maintains rotten institutions and denies to 
science and to thought and to progress their 





New Earth 59 

rightful recognition, halting the earth as still as 
'Joshua's moon at Ajalon.' ” 

Mr. White was listening closely. His lips were 
tight. In the rear of the hall Hicks was whisper¬ 
ing to McLanahan. 

"-and there are loose-brained industrial lead¬ 

ers whose work upsets the social peace of a thous¬ 
and communities, threatens the orderly attain¬ 
ment of social justice, and offers to relieve with 
chaos the multiplied oppressions of labor-" 

Mr. White's face resumed its peaceful stolidity. 
McLanahan made an eloquent gesture as if about 
to reply, but Hicks tugged at his sleeve and he 
turned and left the hall. 

On the way back to the platform Hicks was 
stopped by Henry Durand. 

"Who was that chap, Mr. Hicks?" 

"Name's McLanahan—John McLanahan. He's 
a weigher at Bloody Hollow. Always making 
trouble." 

"Why doesn't Mr. White discharge him?" 

"Union man. There’d be a walkout." 

The speaker was proceeding- 

", . . Is it not right, therefore, that of all 
the problems before us the problem of war 
should command our first endeavor, our bravest 
thought?" 

"He's so formal," Cecilia complained to Sen- 





60 


The Shaft in the Sky 

ator Calhoun whom Hugh had brought back, 
“but your speech was lovely, Senator!” 

“To have you think so is worth making a 
dozen speeches, my dear Miss Cecilia. You in¬ 
spired me.” 

Hugh winked at Henry* “Senator—this is a 
political occasion!” 

The “little giant” was not to be bullied out 
of place. “Point the occasion, sir,” he said, “or 
the man, immune from such inspiration.” 

“Not I,” said Hugh, jubilant eyes on Cecilia, 
“Call her the modern Cleopatra. With my hand 
on my heart-” 

“Oh, rot!” Ruth’s disgust encouraged him. 

“-and my heart in my throat!” 

“Shut up r 

“-and my throat wide in praise, I, Anthony, 

confess the Star-eyed Egyptian we foolishly call 
Cecilia!” 

The star eyes were dancing. “Oh—oh, I’m 
overcome! A fig for you, sir! Save your 
speeches for the platform—you were stuttering 
there half an hour ago.” 

“Look—he’s finished!” said Henry. 

The audience was on its feet, some standing in 
place to applaud, others already on the way out. 
Chairman Brown had gone into a whispered con¬ 
ference with Sturtevant who was nodding vigor¬ 
ous affirmatives. 





New Earth 


61 


The speakers were to be hurried away at once 
for a meeting at Durandville in the evening. The 
candidate came over for a brief exchange with 
the Durand party and then was gone with Hugh 
and the Senator. For him the issue of the mo¬ 
ment was the whole moment. Also the Durands 
were part of that world of which Alice was the 
core. He had foresworn it. 


Chapter Five 

OlNCE Henry was the only one of the Es- 
^sex party with a coherent story of the day 
Alice forgot her feud and plied him with ques¬ 
tions. Was Mr. White there? Were the 
speeches well received? What had Gilchrist said? 
She spoke very sweetly of the “great young man” 
and was especially interested in Henry’s account 
of the McGanahan interruption and of Mr. 
White’s displeasure at Gilchrist’s reply. She 
asked Hicks’ name twice. 

Arthur Herrick was in excellent humor. While 
Alice showed Ruth an astonishing dance she and 
Blaine had improvised to “The Haunt of the 
Witches ” the poet sat with Cecilia on the ver¬ 
anda and betrayed himself luxuriously. “She and 
I climbed Baldy this morning, Cess. Terrific 
pull! She dropped once—threw herself on the 
ground and began eating blueberries. Stamina, 
she has! She and I are going back to town on 
the early train in the morning.” 

“Careful, Arthur—most careful,” Cecilia 
pointed a finger at him, “when Mister Vampire 

62 



New Earth 


63 


and Miss Vampire climb a mountain—she didn’t 
turn her ankle and have to be carried, did she?” 

u Certainly not,” said Arthur, “neither did I.” 

Getting up at six in the morning is like going 
to Childs’ Restaurant. When the act has no 
routine relationship to reality it can be a charm¬ 
ing experience. Such things are burdensome 
only to those who must take them in earnest. All 
of the house-party were up at five-thirty to put 
Alice and Alice’s trunks, hatboxes, travelling 
bags, vanity case, and Arthur on the Washington 
train. For fashion folk any one of a day’s 
twenty-four hours may be used indiscriminately. 

Settled in an empty parlor car Alice bestowed 
her feet on the adjacent chair and went to sleep. 
Or so it seemed at least. Her eyes were closed, but 
from an occasional corner of one of them she 
made sure that Arthur had a picture of exquisite 
profile in tenderest repose. Certainly no profile 
could have been more appealing. No lids and 
lashes so softly drooping, no cheeks so fair or 
faintly flushed, no nose so daintily chiseled, no 
lips so moist and sweet. She was even careful to 
breathe in just the proper excess. There was 
fever in Arthur’s eyes. He was a poet; in his 
nature spirit and sense were interdependent. 
He dreamed over her, remembering other sensu¬ 
alists— 



64 The Shaft in the Sky 

“To lull you ’till one stilled you, 

To kiss you ’till one killed you, 

To feed you ’till one filled you— 

Sweet lips, if love could fill!” 

How splendidly she breathed! The trim 
tailored suit measured every move! 

“Pillowed on my fair love’s ripening breast, 

To feel forever its soft rise and fall; 

Awake forever in a sweet unrest, 

Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath—- 
And so live ever, or else swoon to death.” 

He let his hand rest lightly on her shoulder. 
The sleeping princess awoke. 

“Oh, breakfast? I’m starving.” 

He was dumb. A white-clad emissary entered 
with “first call for breakfast.” Alice scrambled 
from her chair and seized the poet’s arm. 

“Come on, old top. Ye Gods, I’m hungry. I’ll 
eat anything. My word—air brakes, if they have 
them.” She hurried him. “Or sand ballast. 
Railroad ties!” 

In the dining car, though, she ordered toast 
and coffee and, when the waiter had gone, gave 
herself to the business at hand. The business was 
Arthur. 

“Dreams are odd things. Just now I was 
dreaming you and I were dancing to “Haunt of 
the Witches” and you were saying something 
very pretty. I believed I was getting a large kick 
out of it too.” 


New Earth 


65 


Arthur used his napkin hastily, coughed, and 
slid his hand to hers across the table. “Why be 
dreaming it, Alice—wonderful Alice—you know 
I’m mad about you.” 

For the merest moment she let her gaze melt 
into his. Then lids fell dreamily over black eyes; 
she sighed and withdrew her hand. 

“What a place to make love! The sugar 
please.” 

But he was satisfied. Was there not in her 
manner a hint of delightful possibilities when 
time and place were more fortunate! 

Back in the parlor car she bought a newspaper 
and read all the headlines. One corner covered 
the Essex meeting. 

“I was president of my class at Miss Dupont’s, 
Arthur. There was a hot campaign—we pulled 
strings.” 

“Rotten game!” 

“No, I’ve always been interested in politics. 
People are so foolish—its easy.” 

Arthur fell into a theory. “Art is woman’s 
only game,” he asserted. “Manners—dress— 
music—the expenditure of money—religion.” 

“You’re wandering, old top. I don’t under¬ 
stand.” 

“Women are high priestesses of beauty. It’s 
bad enough that men have to scramble in muck.” 


66 


The Shaft in the Sky 

“I have a mind, I suppose.” She was lured 
for the moment out of her plan of conversation. 

“Not at all,” he said. “You’ll spoil a lot if you 
go in for that sort of thing.” 

She knew nothing of theorists and was irri¬ 
tated. “I’m a human being,” she proclaimed, 
“and I have a darned good mind.” 

He shook his head. “You were born to be 
beautiful.” 

She reddened angrily. Perhaps, because of 
certain memories, she was over-sensitive. Her 
own thoughts may have accused her but she 
blamed the poet. “Born to be beautiful”—she 
would remember that a long while. Could he 
mean—it was insulting! She had no doubt that 
all she really meant to Arthur was the possibility 
that he might hold her in his arms. She was 
strangely angry. “Born to be beautiful”—she 
could dislike him for that. 

“Why, what’s the matter?” 

She frowned, and was off on a new track. “Oh 
nothing. I was thinking of something else. I 
shouldn’t tell you I suppose-” 

“What—angel ? Please!” 

“I’d rather not.” 

“Oh, well-” he shrugged. 

“It’s about Gilchrist Sturtevant.” She caught 
him before it was too late. 

“What the devil’s all this Gilchrist Sturtevant 




New Earth 


67 


mystery? Thought he was Hugh’s best friend 
—great young man and all that.” 

“He was—yes. But he wouldn’t be any longer 
if Hugh knew.” The black eyes were snapping 

now. 

“What is it, darling—tell me?” 

“Oh, he’s common. He isn’t a gentleman and 
of course he wouldn’t know how to treat a girl 
of—well, of my station in life.” 

“You’ve got to tell me now.” He was her 
knight and his voice hissed a little, valiantly. 

“It’s an unpleasant business—really-” 

“What is it ?” 

“Well, he—he insulted me. He acted as—he 
treated me as if I were not fit to associate—as if 
I were a woman of—of the very lowest sort. All 
because he wanted me to marry him and I couldn’t 
care for him.” Alice turned her head away 
and Arthur fancied a white, white tear. 

“What a rotter!” he said hoarsely, “what a 
damned rotter! You’ll let me handle this, Alice!” 

“No, Arthur—it’s dear of you.” She touched 
his hand. “The whole thing is over and he 
doesn’t exist as far as I’m concerned. Hugh and 
Senator Calhoun and all the decent people in 
Washington will find out soon enough what type 
of man he is.” 

“You bet they will!” 

As the poet was reputed the most picturesque 




68 


The Shaft in the Shy 

male gossip in town and the most poetic in li¬ 
cense with the truth she was sure the story—or 
the hint of a story—would travel and grow. So 
there was an end of that! Perhaps he would 
really face Gilchrist and make a scene! She 
hadn’t planned it but if Arthur made a fool of 
himself so much the better. “Born to be beauti¬ 
ful” indeed! 

It was raining when they arrived in Washing¬ 
ton. The Deering chauffeur and two redcaps con¬ 
voyed them to the big Pierce Arrow where Mrs* 
Deering was waiting. Mrs. Deering was in an 
unhappy humor; it was annoying to have Alice re¬ 
turn just now. With daughter away mother could 
play. To cap her irritation they must wait while 
Arthur was sent for an afternoon paper. 

“You don’t seem to realize I’m growing up,” 
Alice explained whimsically. “I suppose my mind 
is awakening; you’ve always wanted my mind 
to-” 

“Yes, but not when you’re blocking traffic, you 
little fool!” Mrs. Deering was a practical society 
woman. In her own way she loved her daughter. 
Loved her so well she wished her to be the most 
exclusive, snobbish, callous, enviously discussed 
and notably married of all the Capital’s elect. 
Consecrated as she was to the social careers of 
her daughter and herself, no nun ever abjured the 
mundane world as religiously as did she every cir- 



New Earth 


69 


cumstance that might impede her from the 
“golden round.” To such an end no toil, no sac¬ 
rifice, was too great for this mother’s love. A 
vigorous presence! Her face was purged of every¬ 
thing but scheming, shrewdness and hate. Withal 
she made a militant figure—this campaigner 
whom long service had rid of every tender or 
noble quality. Like Alice’s her eyes were black 
and snapped, but without 'the daughter’s oc¬ 
casional sense of humor. They were fanatic eyes. 
The Modern Crusader! 

“We’re late already. I’m giving a dinner. 
Was George White on the train—he’s to come 
down from Essex?” 

“George White! He’s chairman of the Demo¬ 
cratic something or other.” 

“Don’t be absurd, dear—you know nothing of 
politics. What are you doing to-night? Not 
wasting time on this Arthur Herrick!” 

The gods were good; they played Alice’s game 
for her. “No, certainly not, mother,” she said, 
“I’m coming to your dinner.” 

Her mother stared suspiciously. What was 
the girl about now? “Impossible, child. They’re 
all older people. You’d be extra, anyhow.” 

“Arthur will come and make it even, won’t you 
Arthur,” she smiled at the poet returning with 
the Courier. 


70 


The Shaft in the Sky 

He accepted promptly. In the second place, the 
Deerings served wine! 

An hour later Alice was comfortably negligee 
in her own pink-walled room, reading the 
Courier. The sheet was painfully non-partisan; 
it stood for good weather but would go no 
further. It was covering the Sturtevant cam¬ 
paign at Senator Calhoun's special request; the 
editor generally holed out ahead of the “little 
giant" at Chevy Chase. The front pages to-night 
were given over to scareheads of race-rioting in 
the city; there was talk of martial law. On an in¬ 
side page she found what she wanted—“Demo¬ 
cratic Candidate Seeks Labor Support." She 
learned, without knowing just what she was 
learning, that Commander Sturtevant had ad¬ 
mitted (“ready to admit!") to a mining audience 
at Bloody Hollow the “right of labor to choose 
its own representatives for collective bargaining." 
That he admitted “labor was not a commodity"; 
that, with qualifying definitions, he believed la¬ 
bor “entitled to the value it adds to a product"; 
that he had offered a plan for an Industrial Com¬ 
mission as a substitute for the “right to strike" 
and that this had brought about much heckling 
from Socialists in the audience. 

And so on—for a burdensome column! She 
was confused and discouraged until a very simple 


New Earth 


71 


device occurred to her. Whatever the Socialists 
liked would not be liked by Mr. George White! 
She went over the column again, laboriously pick¬ 
ing out phrases. “The value labor adds to a prod¬ 
uct.” “Representation by industrial units.” 
“Capital entitled to no return.” “State owner¬ 
ship of means of production and distribution.” 
“The right to strike.” What a muddle! She 
hunted up the document she had written after 
the interview with John Durand and jotted some 
of the phrases on the back. 

Older men, she decided, prefer black. She 
dressed for dinner in a black gown with a shawl 
of exquisite black lace. Just before the guests 
arrived she slipped into the dining room and shuf¬ 
fled the place cards so that Mr. White sat on her 
right and Arthur on her left. 

George White loathed dinner parties. He was 
present to-night for no other reason than that 
Mrs. Deering’s world accepted his world on 
suffrance. He despised society folk but he came 
to their parties out of a vague conviction that in 
so doing he disproved the legend of superiority 
they had written about themselves. On this par¬ 
ticular evening he was resolved to be comfortably 
unsociable and to eat well. 

He did not know that the young woman on his 
left had other plans for him. It was an ambush, 
in fact, for he was no sooner seated than a deadly 


72 The Shaft in the Sky 

fire from Mrs. Adyngton-Sims began to riddle his 
right guard- 

right (with machine gun effect) “ . . . . for¬ 
gets to make it without on her partner's one club 
bid. If 'you play, Mr. White, you know how 
annoying it is to have anyone in the game who 
isn't following." 

mr. white grunts. (He is completely hostile.) 
left. (A liquid shoulder, engrossed with Ar¬ 
thur.) 

right. “It wasn't that I cared about the score. 
Of course I only play for money because its more 
exciting. But so many women can't add. I 
counted up myself just before we shifted . . . ." 
mr. white is eating his grapefruit from a tall 
goblet. 

left. (Still the shoulder. Peals of laughter. 
Arthur has scored) 

right . . . “It's just as Mrs. Bayne says—you 
simply must concentrate to play. I’m sure you’d 
do it wonderfully if you were interested, Mr. 
White ..." 

left . . . “Shocking! (turns to right) I must 
tell you, Mr. White. I’m Alice Deering—here's 
my place card. You’ll think I'm naughty but its 
too good-" 

mr. white suspends operation and looks at her 
without a flicker of expression. (It is something, 
though, to have stopped the attack on the fruit.) 




New Earth 


73 


left, (half-voice). “You know Mistanguette, 
the French dancer, insured her legs for twenty 
thousand dollars when she came to America. 

Well, Jean Maurin says-” (the voice subsides 

to a wicked murmur. It isn’t such a naughty 
story after all but Mr. White is given all the sen¬ 
sations) “—and Mistanguette said, ‘mon chere 
Jean, you mustn’t believe all those stories you 
hear about the President.’ ” 
mr. white looks directly left. (Left is a 
study in sophistication; she is even lifting her 
eyebrows) “Well, little lady, that’s a live one!” 
(His grunt is almost cordial.) 
left (dropping sophistication pose) “Dear me! 
Fancy you calling me little lady.’ I’m twenty- 
one, you know!” 

mr. white. “Huh! Thought you were twenty!” 
(he guffaws at his facetiousness.) 
left. “I’m old enough to vote this fall in Es¬ 
sex County—for Sturtevant. Isn’t Gilchrist 
splendid!” 

mr. white. “Suppose so—very fine young 
man.” (He hates being asked for enthusiasm.) 
left. “He has such, er—sympathies. We’ve 
talked a great deal.” 

mr. white is once more a picture of uncon¬ 
cern—contemplating the bird on his plate with an 
eye for operations. 

left. “I don’t pretend to understand it all but 



74 


The Shaft in the Shy 

it sounds quite—oh, noble, you know. ‘The right 
to strike’—and, what is it, ‘industrial representa¬ 
tion in Congress,’ and, er—‘capital is entitled to 
•no return.’ ” 

mr. white turns directly left again but his eyes 
express nothing. 

left. “And, er—‘taxation without representa¬ 
tion’—no—that was in the revolutionary war, 
wasn’t it! He says we can learn a lot from the 
Russian Soviet government.” 
mr. white. “He said that.” 
left. “Yes, we talk of a great many things be¬ 
cause-” (eyelids are lowered prettily) 

mr. white. (Attacking his bird with ferocity) 
“Well, if he’s courtin’ you, young woman, he’s 
got a good level head on him.” 
left reddens and has no reply. 

A level head! Why should she take everything 
the wrong way lately! The man wasn’t refer¬ 
ring to money—he wouldn’t dare! Yet, what 
else could he mean? For the second time in a day 
something that might have been taken as a compli¬ 
ment struck unpleasantly. Gilchrist hunting a 
fortune! Well, she might believe anything of 
him. But the humiliation! All the others who 
made love to her—were they merely “level head¬ 
ed?” The thought stung her vanity unmercifully. 
The vulgar old fool! Not Arthur, anyhow! But 
Arthur was disgusting—“born to be beautiful” 




75 


New Earth 

indeed! She felt herself strangely imprisoned be¬ 
tween these two men now and disliked them both. 

At the foot of the table her father was smiling 
at her. Ah, she could worship him for that quiet 
comrade smile! Something big and clean—he 
was a man—her father! 

That there should have been a Mr. Deering 
in Alice’s family was of itself a thing of note. 
The husbands of most of Washington’s “cam¬ 
paigners” are divorced or demented or dead. But 
Mr. Deering had managed to stick, and, what 
was more, to keep all the nobilities his wife had 
discarded. He was a philosopher, a philanthro¬ 
pist, and had his sense of humor—and this, no 
doubt, explained his survival. Perhaps the only 
things Mr. and Mrs. Deering had in common 
were courage and a love of battle. It was natural, 
therefore, that Alice should have these things in 
double measure. Catching her father’s smile at 
this moment she felt all her determination surge 
back; there was no thought that he would despise 
her project if he knew—only the renewed thrill 
of contest. She sent him back a strangely pas¬ 
sionate smile for her own and turned again to 
the attack—this time to Arthur. 

“Oh, Arthur’s falling for the blue widow— 
Alice is jealous!” 

The wine had been red for Arthur. It burned 
in his cheek and eye. 


76 


The Shaft in the Sky 

“Alice, you know—ten blue widows on my left 
wouldn’t balance you on my right!” 

“Outrageous! I’ve lost five pounds. Balance 
ten blue widows indeed!” 

“Trip me up, angel. You’re so wonderful to¬ 
night I could—oh, you’re beautiful!” 

She winced at the “beautiful” and sallied into 
new fields. 

“Be careful not to mention what I told you 
about Gilchrist Sturtevant—when you’re smok¬ 
ing after dinner.” 

The poet made himself as stern as his load of 
love and wine would allow. “Wouldn’t like to 
meet that cad to-night. He insulted you, Alice, 
do you know—insulted you!” 

Yes, Arthur should have much to say over the 
cigars! She protested generously- 

“After all, I don’t believe he’s really to blame. 
Its just that he’s picked up a lot of socialistic ideas 
—sympathizes with this soviet business. I sup¬ 
pose he is obliged to hate the upper classes.” 

“So that’s it—yes, he’s a darned red—I might 
have known it—a bolshevist.” 

Thus did Alice load him for another shot at 
the boss of the Seventh Congressional District. 
Mr. White should hear Arthur too call Gilchrist 
a radical. Things were going nicely. She sig¬ 
nalled the butler to pour the Burgundy again and 
when the poet’s hand reached for hers under the 



New Earth 


77 


table she pressed it warmly. Life was good! It 
was good to be a villainess—good to hate Gil¬ 
christ ! 

Two hours later she woke her maid. There was 
a telegram which she read while the maid un¬ 
fastened her dress: “Gik and I arrive to-night 
full of votes. Nevertheless will Buccaneer meet 
me lunch to-morrow Saint Marks—Hugh.” 

Surely she would! Darling old Hugh! She 
needed nothing so much! 

The maid was gone. The moon shone in the 
window. Downstairs the clock was striking 
twelve. Sleep—dreamless, deep-pillowed sleep of 

one without conscience but with only Love and 

/ 

Hate for guide-stars. 


Chapter Six 

T TTlJGH and Gilchrist arrived in town at mid- 
JOL night. A newsboy thrust his paper through 
their taxi window. “Race riots sweep City. Po¬ 
lice unable to Cope with Situation. Three Whites 
Killed. Negro casualties Nine.” 

Gilchrist bought the paper. “I can’t believe it! 
The Capital of the United States! Most of them 
were in the army a year ago—ready to die for an 
ideal—now this—beastiality! God!” 

“Better drop me at the Post Building; I’ll have 
to write it up,” Hugh yawned. “See you at the 
club for breakfast.” 

Gilchrist wondered. He had noticed it before; 
in moments of biting reality Hugh somehow 
failed of comprehension. Yet a year from now 
when the riots were old history Hugh’s imagina¬ 
tion would make them vivid. 

They said good-night and the cab moved up 

Pennsylvania Avenue with Gilchrist. Rounding 

into Fifteenth Street by the Treasury it stopped 

jokingly. Gilchrist opened the door. At the 

corner was a crowd of whites; something was 

going on but he couldn’t see. A little man, hat- 

78 


New Earth 


79 


less, was scurrying towards him, and he stepped 
out onto the sidewalk to wait. The man’s left 
eye was almost closed and one flap of his collar 
was pulled loose. The hand he raised to signal 
Gilchrist held the forgotten stump of a cigar. 
After him some of the crowd were edging up, 
more curious than anything else. The hatless 
one explained- 

“These hoodlum they have knock a black boy 
ver’ bad up there down. You have the gentleness 
to permit I take him to be cure in thees taxee?” 

Something tightened in Gilchrist. “Jump in,” 
he said. “Driver, push through there!” The 
chauffeur hesitated but his fare eyed him so 
sternly he released the clutch and moved slowly 
ahead, blowing his horn. The crowd made way. 
Across the car tracks a negro was lying, face 
down. The cab stopped and the little foreigner 
was out in a flash, wildly excited, lifting the 
negro. The crowd surged in. “Leave him there, 
you damned Frenchy!” “Git the hell outer the 
way with that taxi!” “Throw ’em both in the 
river!” “Say, Jim, let’s drag him down to the 
basin!” A husky youth in an overseas cap cursed 
loudly and struck full-armed at the foreigner. 
The blow landed on the little man’s eye and sent 
him trotting pitifully backward. He whimpered 
and fell against the taxicab, half imprisoning 
Sturtevant who pulled himself clear and stepped 



80 


The Shaft in the Sky 

towards the prostrate negro. The husky one 
blocked him. “Listen, friend, you and yer taxi 
and yer frog beat it—and quick—get me?” 

Gilchrist was incapable of enough detachment 
from the moment to be afraid. He was down¬ 
stage 1 and the leading man; his lines were written 
and committed—he had only to speak them. 
Meanwhile he stood motionless, facing the other, 
a slim, gallant figure in the street light. There 
was something uncompromising in the presence 
he made for now the man in the overseas cap was 
hulking sidewise uncertainly and his oaths were 
unmistakably querulous. He drew his forearm 
back as if to strike, then thrust it into his pocket. 
Gilchrist spoke quietly: 

“Don't pull the gun, old man! You wouldn't 
do anything with it—because you're afraid!" He 
looked over the crowd for a moment. Fellow-ac¬ 
tors! Supernumeraries! He knew his part and 
proceeded without raising his voice. 

“Cowards—every man of you! A hundred 
to one against a nigger already down. You call 
this fair play? I can't believe any man who has 
ever fought for his country would be mixed in 
this dirty business!" 

Pause! No one knows what to do! Gilchrist 

* 

is looking level-eyed at the overseas cap. “I'm 
going to take this darky to a hospital. If any¬ 
body has anything to say about it-" (No one 




New Earth 


81 


had anything to say.) “Here you (to the overseas 
cap)—give me a lift with him!” The fallen 
leader obeyed sheepishly while the crowd began 
to laugh, jeer, and yell approval. 

Curtain, as the taxicab moves off with Gil¬ 
christ and his two wounded inside! The French¬ 
man regained consciousness before they reached 
the hospital and except for the battered eye was 
none the worse for his part. Gilchrist gave him a 
card and asked him to call the next day. The 
negro was still unconscious. 

Although Drama had waylaid Gilchrist in the 
street it could not be coaxed to Hugh whose pro¬ 
fession it was. After one attempt to write his 
story he threw a good cigar into the wastebasket 
and left the office. He could feel nothing of all 
this—except the holiday spirit. But after he had 
prowled Ninth and Seventh Streets an hour 
without adventure, he suddenly found his story 
and raced back to his desk. Found it in remem¬ 
bering another race riot—in Atlanta—years ago 
when he was a boy. Under the green-shaded 
light, with only a brief opening paragraph in 
mind, he launched his pencil across the white 
paper and, presto, from the leaden tip his whole 
story ran! Whatever talent he had was im¬ 
promptu; he was never so vital or consistent as 
when he was unprepared. A few facts from the 


82 


The Shaft in the Sky 

afternoon papers and all the rest, all the color 
and atmosphere, from Atlanta! He wrote so rap¬ 
idly his hand was cramped, but even more rapidly 
now his ideas marshalled themselves in happy 
order in advance of the pencil. He finished and 
sent a copy boy with the sheets to the night op¬ 
erator. 

Then suddenly he forgot it all. It was a freak 
of nerve excitement perhaps that sent him leap¬ 
ing without reason over a thousand days and two 
thousand miles to arrive unbidden at something 
remote and sweet. Mountain air flooding a 
musty, tropic room! Fairyland three years ago! 
It was unadulterated memory—and only memory 
—for he asked nothing now of that past. She 
had been married two years—and he had lightly 
loved a dozen times since. Because it was only 
memory, though, it was exclusively his own. And 
now, in an instant, he was drunk with it. For a 
long time he stared at the blank wall across the 
desk, then his pencil moved out again to the 
white paper and this time it was music that 
flowed- 

“Beloved! I call you that once more. All in a 
moment—and for a moment—you have come 
back. Piece by piece I had been forgetting; 
without my will or knowledge the picture was 
fading. 

'Life treads down Love in flying, Time withers 



83 


New Earth 

him at root!’ No other tragedy is above this— 
that what was noblest, most keen, in life should 
pass. To-night I will say over again with what 
excess I loved you—and you will remember. Be¬ 
cause of you faith was worth holding, life worth 
living. What does it matter that I was too 
bound and weak with it all to hold you, that I 
could not play the game and would not if I could! 
You were better lost than baited and trapped by 
me. These things are nothing now; it only mat¬ 
ters that I should forget. I made my prayers to 
you. I make them to-night again, thank God! 
And I only grieve that a moment ago and for 
many moments I had let Time take you away. I 
will not pretend; for all my pains Time will take 
you again, I know. This is only one little minute 
—and I spend it in saying T love you/ For this 
moment I know life was only worth what you 
could give; there was nothing else anywhere. To¬ 
morrow, yes, there will come petty things I will 
value, but now I can sit here and look high at 
that other who was myself and was a very God 
for love of you—and marvel that I can be here 
so low and there so high. Dearest, dearest, love 
is such a little word for what passed from me 
to you—and is passing now!” 

The telephone rang. He dropped the pencil 
and reached for the receiver. Then he stopped, 
gathered the pages and tore them into many 
pieces. With such a gesture ended a story which 
was neither here nor there. 


Chapter Seven 

7^HE dregs of Ninth Street mostly—exploit- 
ing circumstance to indulge a sensual ap¬ 
petite for destruction. It isn’t often that a 
chance for vandalism comes accompanied by as 
plausible a pretense of moral righteousness.” 

Gilchrist was explaining the riot to Hugh over 
a breakfast table at the Club. Hugh would 
rather have read the paper but his friend was de¬ 
termined upon analysis of the mob spirit. 

“ . . . Young ruffians whose whole scheme of 
things holds no sense of respect for woman’s 
honor.” 

Hugh rattled his paper, “Post says negroes 
were firing from windows and automobiles at pe¬ 
destrians.” 

“Children! Most of them just out of the army 
and still childishly arrogant with military ex¬ 
perience. They’ve been harrangued by older 
negroes, equally childish, fancying themselves 
leaders of their race and preaching resistance and 
aggression. Told the negro’s day has come and 

that the whites want to destroy the whole race 

84 


New Earth 85 

for acts done by white men with blackened 
faces-” 

“Gemman to see you, suh—say he wait down¬ 
stairs/’ 

“To see me?” Gilchrist asked, “don’t know 
why—at this hour. What does he look like, 
Parker?” 

“Ah, ver’ peculyer lookin’ suh—allow he might 
be a furriner.” 

“Oh, that’s the man”—he nodded at Hugh, 
“ask him to come up.” 

The Frenchman was more presentable this 
morning. His face beamed from recent razor 
and soap. His manner was apologetic. Gilchrist 
rose. 

“Good morning, Mr. er-?” 

“Guibert, monsieur. It is that I have come to 
say thank you.” 

“On the contrary, Mr. Guibert, I must thank 
you for your help in the little—er, misunderstand¬ 
ing. Sit down. This is Mr. Cothran!” 

Hugh liked him at once. They shook hands 
and the visitor settled hesitantly into a chair. 

“From France, aren’t you?” 

“Now it is France. Mulhause—in Alsace.” 

“There during the war?” 

“But no, monsieur; it is when the war oc¬ 
cur I make a run away. I fight for la France; 
then I have love that countree. But now-” 






86 


The Shaft in the Shy 

the speaker looked at Gilchrist as if for pardon— 
“it is not the same.” 

“Why?” Hugh asked. What a wistful, lost 
manner the man had! 

“I have think there are things more big than 
la France ” 

“You haven’t told us how you got into that 
fracas over the darky last night, Mr. Guibert.” 

“Darkee? Ah, oui —the black man! It is that, 
monsieur —more big than la France. I have think 
it is good to come to thees countree. Thees coun¬ 
tree have not fight for the United States, I say, 
it have fight for all the world, it have fight be¬ 
cause all the world is ver’ bad hurt. It is when I 
come on the boat I am think every one here he is 
good—he fight for who is hurt. But it is not so! 
Pardon, monsieur, there are much who are not 
here good.” 

Hugh could have hugged the man, for the 
vagueness of his altruism and the humble self- 
effacing gestures. Here perhaps was one who 
loved his fellow-man without economic or po¬ 
litical formulae! 

“What are you doing in Washington?” he 
asked. 

“I make my existence here. Every day I make 
much translate from your language to mine. It 
is not good—I speak ver’ bad.” 

“And before the war-?” 



New Earth 


87 


“Avant la guerre! It is ver’ long—before that 
war. But no, I make the books at the—what is it 
you say—yes, at the mine of coal in Alsace.” 

Gilchrist was looking at his watch. He had 
little of Hugh’s love of personalities* The 
Frenchman rose instantly. 

“Now I will say good-bye. It is a ver’ great 
pleasure.” 

“Oh I say, Mr. Guibert,” said Hugh, “we must 
meet again—tell me where you live.” 

A boarding house in southeast was named. 
Gilchrist extended his hand, “And I thank you 
again for the very brave thing you did last night.” 

Hugh pointed at the patch over the other’s eye, 
“Good-bye, Mr. Guibert—hope that wallop does¬ 
n’t bother you.” 

“Wallop! I do not understand. Ah, the blow! 
It is not much. Au revoir, messieures.” 

“Jove, I like that chap!” Hugh smiled after 
the retreating figure. 

“Day-dreaming little fellow. Those hazy ideas 
will get him into trouble. Maybe old White would 
give him a job—he worked in a coal mine.” 

“Good! You ought, you know. Bet you for¬ 
get.” 

“I have an appointment with White and Mar¬ 
tin this morning. I’ll mention it.” 

Hugh was glad not to be included in the con¬ 
ference to which the other referred. Such affairs 


88 


The Shaft in the Shy 

smacked of organization and, by that token, he 
hated them and was prepared to plead his 
luncheon engagement against this one. As it 
turned out he missed a very lively session. Mr. 
White was in a bad humor and made more than 
one apoplectic and apparently irrelevant out¬ 
burst against the radical trend of labor leadership. 
Once Gilchrist took issue with him sharply, de¬ 
claring that he could sympathize with the condi¬ 
tions which gave rise to revolutionary talk even if 
he could not condone the talk itself. Senator 
Calhoun and Congressman Martin needed all 
their diplomacy to keep the peace. It would have 
been easier if either the candidate or Mr. White 
had been less outspokenly honest. 

Hugh would have been amazed at an accusation 
of disloyalty to Gilchrist in lunching with Alice. 
His sense of humor was damning. It weakened 
his moral judgments; whatever he could laugh at, 
he could forgive, and he could laugh at almost 
everything. It was not in him to take so intense 
and dramatic a man as his friend in complete 
earnest. In the matter of Alice he rather felt 
that Gilchrist must have made himself ridiculous. 
Knowing both of them well he was more amused 
and interested than partisan. He held a ringside 
seat at a clash between two vigorous and daunt- 


New Earth 89 

less opposites; his attention was merely a sport¬ 
ing one. 

Contrary to his guess and to his past experience 
Alice was only twenty minutes late at Saint 
Marks. When the businesses of greeting, finding 
a table, and ordering food were over he made a 
little conversation. 

“Well, how about the house-party?” He was 
always like this, she remembered, when they 
hadn't met for a long time—half shy, half teas¬ 
ing. With Hugh it was necessary to break the 
ice. She broke it- 

“Hugh, darling, I could fall on your neck!” 
There was no affectation about her now; that 
was why she loved Hugh. 

“In the name of Saint Mark, Buccaneer—re¬ 
cover ! I'll fall on yours.” His reaction was in¬ 
stant. 

“Do you know-” she was inspecting him 

scientifically, “you have blue eyes and black hair., 
Yes, if I were not so fond of you I'd fall in love 
with you!” 

“Making excuses!” 

“Why aren't they all like you?” 

“I wonder. Have a nut.” 

She came back to business. A cold little ex¬ 
pression crept over the place just below her eyes 
where expressions grow. “I’ll tell you something, 
Hugh.” 




90 


The Shaft in the Sky 

“Oh, I say—you are in love?” 

“Exactly not. Have you ever hated anyone 
with all your soul?” 

“La meme chose, on dit! Not all.” He spoke 
more carefully. “I hear Gik—er, wasn’t very 
nice?” 

The black eyes were snapping again. “If you 
know—surely—you can’t call him your friend 
now.” 

Hugh thought a moment. “But I do, Alice,” 
he smiled. 

Flames in a famous cheek! “You mean you 
take his side? I’m sorry, Hugh, but you must 
choose!” 

He ignored the snappings and flame. “Dear 
devil,” he said gravely, “I couldn’t choose—I’m 
too damnable fond of you both. Gik is all sorts 
of a fool about women. Wants one he can say his 
prayers to.” He stopped to drink a glass of 
water, then laughed into the black eyes. “And 
the joke is that he stumbled on a blooming Buc¬ 
caneer with a coral cutlass in her teeth. Will you 
sip a bit of soup, Miss Devil-may-care!” 

The storm passed. She was laughing too. 
“Darling, if you won’t fight I can’t. But take care 
of your gallant candidate—the coral cutlass might 
be put to work.” 

“Don’t do it, pirate! A cutlass is too pictur¬ 
esque for that. Besides you’d have to clutter up 



New Earth 


91 


your sea-roving brain with all sorts of musty 
things not in a pirate’s line.” 

She winced a little at this. Perhaps Hugh too 
was thinking her nothing more than pretty and 
rich. But no—positively! She must believe in 
Hugh. She gossiped about the fall debu¬ 
tantes— 

“They’re all fat. Don’t say I’m cattish—you’ll 
see.” 

“Best to start that way. Didn’t they always 
fatten up the Egyptian slave girls before the sales 
came off?” 

“Vulgar! You’ll fall in love with the first one 
who wants you to.” 

“I daresay, O wise and beautiful! I won’t even 
wait for her to want me to—there might be, er, 
embarrassing delays.” 

“Two-faced! I hope the Prince of Wales 
takes your heart’s temporary delight. Even Hugh 
Cothran can’t compete with a Prince.” 

“Oh I don’t know—if I feel all right! When 
does he come?” 

“November. Stella Chambers bet me fifty dol¬ 
lars she gets his photograph and dances with him 
five times.” 

“Stella! First flapper of Washington!” 

“You don’t know. Stella has real stuff.” 

“You bet she has!” 

“Somebody told Myrtis he was going to Hot 



92 


The Shaft in the Sky 

Springs later on and her mother has engaged 
a suite of rooms there. Efficient, I say! Blaine 
Todd’s furiously jealous.” 

“ Tf I were king, ah love, if I were king,’ ” 
Hugh quoted, “Why should Blaine worry. His 
Royal Highness can’t take her ducats. It reads 
well, though,—jealous of Wales.” 

Alice was delighted, “I believe—why yes, cer¬ 
tainly—they come both male and female, don’t 
they?” 

“What?” 

“Cats!” 

Hugh blushed. He was ashamed of what he 
thought of Blaine. 

“Well, as long as the Prince doesn’t tamper 

with our pirate-” he said lamely, “you haven’t 

designs too?” v 

She lifted her eyes ceilingward. “I shall be 
polite. If His Highness is sensitive to beauty 
and maidenliness, who am I, prithee, to turn my 
head up—or away?” 

“Modest creature! Violets—every morning!” 

Myer Davis’ orchestra was playing “ Sambre et 
Meuse ” and Hugh remembered Pierre Guibert. 
He told her of the little Frenchman. 

“. . . manner of having escaped from himself. 
He’s so unselfconscious about it. Doesn’t want 
to uplift his fellow man particularly, or put him 
into any new system. Gik thinks he’s in just the 



New Earth 


93 


vague, exalted state to jump at any sort of revolu¬ 
tionary nonsense that's put in his way. The thing 
that gets you is his humbleness; he simply wants 
to help—anywhere. Gik’s asking old man White 
to give him a job at Bloody Hollow. 

Alice caught at the last words. “What’s his 
name?” 

“Pierre Guibert. Comes from Alsace. Was a 
sort of bookkeeper in a coal mine.” 

“How interesting.” She spoke as if if were not 
really interesting at all. But she fixed the name— 
Pierre Guibert! 



Chapter Eight 


O NE month, two months, three months, and 
the candidate was still at it. There were 
too many “votes” in his district. The farmer 
vote, the labor vote, the vote of the wealthy land¬ 
holder, the very important vote of George White 
—and finally Gilchrist’s own vote of conscience 
and conviction. To reconcile the viewpoints 
represented by these “votes” was a discouraging 
task. Mr. White, particularly, was proving a 
thorn in the flesh. Wherever it was possible to 
see socialism in liberalism he saw it, was obsessed 
with it. He refused to distinguish between Gil¬ 
christ’s championship of individual liberties and 
the doctrines of those whose individual liberties 
were being denied. A day after the candidate 
had scored the New York legislature for its re¬ 
fusal of duly elected Socialists he had a curt 
letter from Mr. White. On another occasion 
when he denounced “government by injunction” 
in the coal strike there was a two hundred word 
telegram. And when he criticized the Attorney- 
General for deportations of alien radicals he was 

94 



New Earth 95 

summoned to a long distance phone for disci¬ 
pline— 

“Essex County Post says you attacked the Ad¬ 
ministration for exporting foreign trouble- * 
makers. Did you?” 

“I criticized Palmer—yes.” 

A dead wire. The other end had rung off. The 
only immediate consequence was that the Gazette 
which was Mr. White’s paper had no account of 
Gilchrist’s next speech. The speech was covered 
though by the Bloody Hollow Liberator, a social¬ 
ist organ, which continually spoke of Gilchrist as 
the “coal company candidate.” 

All of which might have discouraged another 
man. But more than ever before in his life Gil¬ 
christ was living in the moment. Before him were 
political storm clouds and behind were the rocks 
upon which Alice had wrecked his single emo¬ 
tional venture. Yet he stuck to the immediate 
tasks. All his life he had taken care of the day 
and the morrow had taken care of him. 

For Alice he believed there were no regrets 
now. But for the emotional wreckage he was 
aware of a horror that forbade examination. As 
soon as he permitted himself to see that the 
woman about whom he had built his romance did 
not exist he had no interest left for the real Alice. 
Nothing weak resulted; a strong nature may be 
embittered but not demoralized by such an ex- 



96 


The Shaft in the Sky 

perience. It was not the sort of thing he could 
talk to Hugh about for he knew that in his place 
Hugh’would have made something heroic of the 
recollection. 

Late in September he spoke again at Bloody 
Hollow. The industrial court plan had taken its 
form mainly from the opposition that rose against 
it and now he could speak of it concisely. 

“If you send me to Congress I promise you a 
bill to establish an Industrial Commission. Into 
its hands should come final jurisdiction of every 
question properly arising between capital and 
labor where the public interest is apparent—with, 
of course, the constitutional limitation that ap¬ 
peal might be taken to the Supreme Court of the 
United States. The Commission should sit to 
adjudge, not to arbitrate, and its personnel should 
consist not as heretofore of equal representation 
for capital, labor and the public but of men 
schooled in impartial study of industrial ques¬ 
tions. How would such men be found, you will 
ask? It would be difficult at first, I am ready to 
admit, but the term of office should be for life and 
there would develop in time a body of men de¬ 
voted to the study of industrial law as we have 
to-day men devoted to ordinary law. No prejudice 
arising from an earlier and different occupation 
or from anticipation of a future and different 
occupation could attach to men of such class. But, 


97 


New Earth 

you will say, there can be no courts without laws 
or statutes or precedents for guidance. True— 
and the first act of the Industrial Commission 
should be the enactment of a Magna Carta of 
industry. We can guess what that Magna Carta 
would contain. The Commission would write 
into it first, I can fancy, the old battlecry of 
Unionism—'labor is not a commodity/ (Ap¬ 
plause) They would write that the liberty of an 
individual to quit work should not be 
abridged. . . 

There were many questions after the speech. 
Gilchrist always enjoyed this part of the program 
no matter how tired he might be. While he was 
answering one interrogator he recognized Pierre 
Guibert in the audience. So White had given 
him a job after all! In the excitement of recent 
weeks he had forgotten the little man. At the 
close of the questioning Pierre came forward 
accompanied by a hard-featured gentleman whom 
Gilchrist thought he had seen before. In spite 
of‘the humbleness there was a hint of antagonism 
in Pierre’s manner. Remembering how Hugh 
had liked him Gilchrist yielded to an impulse- 

"Come and have dinner with me at the hotel, 
Mr. Guibert. I’ve nothing until midnight. We 
had an interesting talk, I remember.” 

Pierre hesitated and introduced his companion 
—Mr. Hicks. 



98 


The Shaft in the Sky 

“It is kind, yes, but if Monsieur Sturtevant will 
be good I will prefer he come to my house. There 
are friends for whom it will be much pleasured 

Gilchrist disliked having his plans altered by 
others. Still this would be rather an adventure. 
Queer little chap! He decided to accept the 
invitation. 

The Frenchman led the way down Diamond 
Avenue, turning off presently into a side street 
which crossed the railroad tracks and skirted the 
shutes and hoists of a coal mine. Mr. Hicks had 
disappeared. Ahead of them squatted row after 
row of lifeless little houses all of the same design 
and color. Gilchrist was surprised; surely White 
had given Pierre a better position than required 
living in one of these ghastly boxes! 

“Where did your friend Hicks go?” 

Pierre made a gesture of impatience. “Al¬ 
ways the same,” he said, “he will not come to my 
house. It is not to be comprehend; he have told 
me of thees ver’ house to live. For me he have do 
much; he have say he is ask by friends in Wash¬ 
ington to look me out.” 

A dirty white cat was eating something on the 
edge of a mud puddle under a lone street lamp. 
Gilchrist began to think it all very unpleasant. 

“Oui, monsieur ” said Pierre, guessing this, 
“it is not pretty, thees place. But there are much 
people live here.” 


New Earth 


99 


“Why don't you live in a better quarter?” 

“My friends are here.” There was just a hint 
of defiance. “It is because of that Mistaire 
White. Him I do not like. He is the big boss. 
My friends have make much money for him and 
he have make that it is bad smell here and not 
music.” 

They were turning in at one of the little boxes. 
Now for stale perspiration, cheap tobacco smoke 
and a mess of corned beef and cabbage, Gilchrist 
thought, and braced himself! 

The door opened on a room that was apparently 
parlor, dining room and kitchen combined. It 
had wallpaper—cool green without designs. 
There was one picture—of a Spanish seashore 
with living blues, yellows and browns. He knew 
the picture; a Sorolla. He could not see the 
“Compliments of New York Times Magazine 
Supplement” in the lower corner. Behind a 
screen at the rear someone was cooking—but not 
corned beef and cabbage. There was a table and 
three chairs. A long gaunt man of about fifty 
with pale features and very bright, bloodshot 
eyes was reading a newspaper. Gilchrist recog¬ 
nized him at once—the man who had interrupted 
his first speech at Essex! From behind the 
screen a girl appeared with a bowl of soup. The 
handles of the dish were hot and she was holding 
them with the hem of her skirt so that Gilchrist 



100 


The Shaft in the Sky 

was aware of a clean white petticoat, black stock¬ 
ings neatly darned in two places, and black slip¬ 
pers. She had brown eyes and very live brown 
hair parted in the middle and knotted on the 
crown of the head. He noticed her ears; he 
hadn’t seen many girls’ ears; these were small 
and very white. The man and the girl both 
looked indubitably clean. 

Pierre made the introductions with much cere¬ 
mony—John McLanahan and Anne, his daughter. 
McLanahan was a weigher at the mines. Gilchrist 
shook hands and thought of Hugh. This was an 
experience! Anne arranged another place at the 
table (now a dining table) and they sat down to 
supper. 

The soup was excellent. There was little else. 
Pierre uncovered great conversational range and 
talked incessantly. When Gilchrist joined in it 
was after the manner of a man feeling his way in 
the dark. There was something hostile about 
McLanahan; his contributions were limited to 
short, unsmiling sentences. The girl did not talk 
at all in the beginning but was perfectly self- 
possessed. Once she laughed at one of Pierre’s 
odd efforts. 

“Do you like Bloody Hollow, Miss McLana¬ 
han?” Gilchrist asked. 

She was surprised. “Why, I don’t know. 
There’s so much to do.” She thought it over a 


New Earth 


101 


moment as if it were more than a conversational 
question. “I like the people here, yes. I like 
father and Pierre.” 

Gilchrist had little of Hugh’s love of person¬ 
alities; his passion was for ideas. Yet he was 
struck with the composure and character in the 
girl’s face. He compared it with another face 
and fancied that from this one life had washed 
all vanity and self-consciousness. 

When the meal was finished she cleared the 
table and retired behind the screen to wash dishes. 
A checkered cloth was drawn over the table. 
McLanahan lighted a pipe and Pierre produced 
a crushed package of Piedmont cigarettes. Gil¬ 
christ accepted one and held a match for the other 
to the accompaniment of bows. McLanahan was* 
first to launch the inevitable politics. 

“Ye’re a nice speaking man, Mister Sturtevant, 
but ye ain’t on to things in this district. Folks is 
tired of what ye’re giving ’em—talk of justice and 
industrial courts.” 

“I don’t understand,” said Gilchrist, letting 
Pierre’s cigarette burn away—he loathed Pied¬ 
monts, “you aren’t in favor of fair play between 
capital and labor?” 

The miner’s eyes burned. “Justice,” he said 
slowly, “is what we’re goin’ ter take—not what 
you’re goin’ ter give us?” 

“Thees justice is not good,” Pierre joined ex- 


102 


The Shaft in the Sky 

citedly, “there is a friend over the street, he work 
hard, his wife work hard, she is sick, there is not 
money for the operations, a little while she die.” 

“But what do you propose, Mr. McLanahan?” 
Gilchrist was more interested than argumenta¬ 
tive. The miner laid down his pipe and put both 
hands flat on the table. 

“Look ter Russia fer that,” he said, “the pro¬ 
posal ain't mine. There's nothin' labor gets she 
don’t take—and we’re goin' ter take what’s ours 
here same as they're takin’ it in Russia.” 

“What will you take?” Gilchrist felt a certain 
shame. This man’s words, however untrue, came 
from a bitter realism. He was suddenly uncom¬ 
fortable in his tailormade clothes and Frank 
Brothers shoes. 

“What’re we goin’ ter take! Everything— 
because we make everything. This is the richest 
country in the world and all of it was made by 
labor. All we’ve got ter do is stand up and take 
it—and, by God, we’ll do it!” 

Gilchrist knew the story by rote. Yet this man 
gave it a new force, a sinister, heartbreaking 
force. Here were mental and emotional qualities 
which spelled leadership,—for better or worse. 
Behind the screen, at work over her pots and 
pans, the girl was singing! The voice had a 
vitality strangely like — and unlike — her 
father’s- 



New Earth 


103 


“There are smiles that make you happy, 

There are smiles that make you sad-” 

Vaguely he felt that she was a living refutation 
of her father. He remembered how she had 
laughed at supper—laughed like one who had 
learned to expect nothing of life and was too 
cheerful and busy to worry. McLanahan was 
voicing a doctrine which threatened all of civiliza¬ 
tion yet Gilchrist had to force his reply- 

“I do feel, Mr. McLanahan, that the injustices 
which have brought about -such an attitude as 
yours must be very great and must call for very 
positive readjustments.” 

“It is not for himself, he speak/’ Pierre ex¬ 
plained, “it is for his friends he ask thees thing.” 

McLanahan’s fist pounded the table. “Christian 
Socialism again, Guibert. Ye’re wrong. I ask 
it for myself.: I'm with the others ter get it for 
myself.” 

“How do you propose to give labor all you say 
it deserves? What is the limit?” 

“There ain’t any! If ye mean increased wages, 
they ain’t ter be any wages—er any wage slaves. 
When we get these damned reformers outer the 
A. F. of L. and the United Mine Workers ye 
won’t hear no more about wages and commis¬ 
sions and arbitrations and all that. The unions’ll 
own everything—none of yer government regula- 





104 The Shaft in the Sky 

tion. And every dollar ter the man who done the 
work!” 

Gilchrist felt again that he and McLanahan 
were reciting an old familiar dialogue. Anne had 
reappeared and was reading a book. He could 
just see over her shoulder from where he sat— 
it was Jeffrey Farnol’s “Broad Highway.” 
“Bloody Hollow Public Library” was stamped on 
the page. It was hard to remember his lines, but 
McLanahan had paused. 

“What about the rest of us, though?” he 
countered with a sense of reciting. “Most 
people don’t belong to labor unions or even to the 
laboring class. Your program is class legisla¬ 
tion—you want an autocracy of labor.” 

Against the even friendliness of his manner it 
was impossible to sustain violence of speech and 
the miner modified his tone. “The working class 
is the only class there is—when things is right. 
You got ter get a whole new way er lookin’ at 
things, Mister Sturtevant. All the people that 
work belong ter the working class—in spite er 
some of ’em being ’shamed ter admit it. Purty 
soon ye’ll see them thet works for salaries en 
thinks they don’t belong ter the working class 
tryin’ to slip in the back door. Well, it’ll be last 
come last serve. En all the rest—folks thet live 
on what other folks make for ’em—they kin 


New Earth 


105 


starve. That’s about it—starve. Ye’re right— 
autocracy of the working people!” 

Pierre was nodding approval. Gilchrist roused 
himself. The vague sympathy he was feeling for 
McLanahan’s position was treason to things he 
held fundamental. Eager speech came back to 
him- 

“You speak from your heart, I know—and 
your experience. But think, man, even if you 
were right this is not the time to preach upheaval. 
The world’s about to starve. Look what infinite 
suffering would come to the very people you speak 
for if your plan, with its inevitable disorganiza¬ 
tion of productive forces, were brought about to¬ 
day ! That alone should stop you for the present. 
And the plan—can you point Russia seriously as 
an example of its success ? The best we can say 
of Russia is that we don’t know what will come 
out of that chaos. You’re forgetting, McLana- 
han, that we’ve gone too far to start all over 
again. What man or group of men can work out 
in a few days or years a substitute for the eco¬ 
nomic and social systems to which centuries of 
practical experience have brought us? Even if 
such a thing were possible you begin with a false 
definition of work. There’s quality as well as 
quantity in work—heads as well as hands. The 
whole of history is a record of people with heads 
winning out over people with hands. Set up your 



106 


The Shaft in the Sky 

system and in a little while the men with brains 
and imagination and courage will begin to take 
things away from the others. It will always 
happen unless you breed men of exactly equal 
ability and you can’t—the testimony of four 
thousand years says you can’t!” 

Pierre walked up and down the room counting 
on his fingers. “I will tell you some little mathe- 
matiques. Every year Mistaire White have one, 
two, three hundred thousand dollar and my 
friend have not one thousand dollar. Mistaire 
White he is not so much more ability than my 
friend like that! Non?” 

"Right!” said Gilchrist, "right you are, Mr. 
Guibert. No man is three hundred times as 
valuable to society as another man. Its a matter 
of degree there and I am ready to admit that the 
differences in men’s fortunes to-day are not justi¬ 
fied by the differences in their contributions. 
Levelling those differences should be the motive 
of our graduated income taxes—the revenue is 
an incident.” 

The Frenchman looked a little puzzled. 
McLanahan was a picture of a mind entrenched 
beyond mortal assault. Gilchrist consulted his 
watch, and rose, with an unsatisfactory feeling 
that the conversation had brought them nowhere. 
He was sorry not to have talked to the girl; she 


New Earth 107 

seemed no more of her father’s world than of 
his own. 

“Good-by, Miss McLanahan. Will you vote 
for me?” 

She closed her book and shook hands. “If 
Pierre will,” she said soberly. “Thank you for 
coming, Mr. Sturtevant—father has enjoyed talk¬ 
ing with you. You—you’d like father.” The 
subjunctive was eloquent. Gilchrist laughed and 
thought of Hugh again. 

Pierre walked with him to the hotel. There 
was something on his mind. He talked of Anne’s 
mother who had been a social worker and artist. 
The mother had died when her daughter was 
born. 

“It is ver’ wise girl you have see there,” he said 
cautiously, “since two year she feenish the—what 
is it—the school of high. She have read much 
books.” 

“What does she do now?” 

“In the school—she instruct. Mais non, Mis- 
taire Sturtevant, she is deeferant. It is not good 
here—she is gentile. Always there is nothing she 
do not know before; always she do not under¬ 
stand that she is tired.” 

Gilchrist remembered her laugh and her song. 
She was different! What a destiny—Bloody 
Hollow! 

“Does she mean to stay here?” 



108 The Shaft in the Sky 

Pierre clutched his arm. “She have no wish, 
monsieur. Perhaps she theenk one do not leave 
thees place—ever. But I have theenk—you have 
procure for me these work-” 

“Would she come to Washington ?” 

The Frenchman wrung his hand madly. “Ah 
—you have discover my thought. It would be 
kind—ver’ kind—I would be glad.” 

Gilchrist looked at him curiously. Was he in 
love? Not in the ordinary sense certainly. It 
would be hard to imagine this altruistic creature 
doing anything as egotistic as falling in love. He 
clapped him on the back so vigorously that Pierre 
coughed. 

“That’s an idea, Guibert. I’ll look into it and 
let you hear from me.” 

“Strike me on the neck!” 

“monsieur is ver’ kind.” 


Pierre sputtered, 




Chapter Nine 

TTf ASHINGTON is born twice each year. 
r r In the spring there are cherry blossoms on 
the Speedway, dogwood in Rock Creek park, 
marble and moonlight in the Aztec Gardens of 
the Pan-American, automobile couples parking 
and sparking along the Potomac Shore. But in 
October there are the summer exiles returning— 
from Bar Harbor, Michigan, Europe—to map the 
winter campaign and direct the early social 
maneuvers which precede the major operations of 
December and January. It is Nature which dies 
in the winter and is reborn in April but it is the 
Spirit of the City which lies prostrate in summer 
to stir again in October. “In April,” Arthur 
Herrick declared cryptically, “I am a Pagan. In 
October a Christian Scientist.” 

At Chevy Chase Club they were dancing while 

Boernstein played. The little orchestra leader 

with poetry in his face and the very devil in his 

violin was fiddling his heart away in ragtime for 

the light-footed couples floating by. Even 

Chevy Chase Club is youthful in October. The 

wine in the eye comes from summer suns (in 

109 


110 The Shaft in the Sky 

December it comes from Baltimore) ; the sub¬ 
debutantes smoke cigarettes from honest nervous¬ 
ness, not from habit; and their dowager mothers 
who are to apply rigorous systems later on are 
still in seclusion. Intrigue, Scandal, Morbid 
Sentiment, Weariness, Jealousy, Ambition, are 
half asleep in October. No wonder Boernstein 
plays so! 

Inside the clubhouse—motion, laughter, light. 
Outside, the splendor of moon-swept lawns and 
the cool majesty of autumn night! Modestly the 
stars keep place; magnificently the wide moon 
strides the heavens; stealthily the things of earth 
play up! Two figures pass the white columns of 
the veranda and come soft-footed across the 
grass. Now they creep cautiously hand in hand, 
now separate and run apart down a vague grassy 
slope, join hands again and dance a mad step on 
the sward,—break, and one is pursuer, one pur¬ 
sued, until they come to a twisted bench upon 
which moon and stars play and over which Boern- 
stein’s far fiddle floats. 

“Ah moon! This woman is mad and I with 
her!” 

“Stars—you are winking—I understand— 
Hugh Cothran is a silly, silly, silly boy!” 

“Moonlight, kiss her,—or I shall!” 

“Starlight, strike him or I-” 



New Earth 111 

“Moon—ah, moon! She has a rose in her hair. 
It’s for me.” 

“A couple of stars—save my rose!” 

“Old moon, I say, light up a bit and look! Its 
Cecilia, the sub-deb, with an organdie dress and 
a rose! The rose is mine!” 

Silence. The moon is broad and tolerant; the 
stars merely twinkle. Boernstein is playing “Sola 
Mior 

Voices approaching, come nearer, and are pass¬ 
ing towards the clubhouse. A bunker inter¬ 
venes. 

Female Voice. Ah—cut it! You can’t kiss 
me all night. Give me a cigarette!” 

“Stella Chambers!” Hugh whispered. 

“Listen! It’s the next dance. Promised Hen. 
Let’s run—whew!” and Cecilia is up and off, 
white slippers twinkling in the grass. At the 
veranda steps she waits for Hugh to come up. 
“For you and the moon—from the stars and me!” 
The rose lies at his feet and she is gone. Octo¬ 
ber madness! 

Exit the Frolics; enter the Conspirators! In a 
very far and very dark corner of the same ver¬ 
anda—Arthur Herrick and Alice Deering. No 
moonlight idyll theirs; they talk soberly as befit 
actors in a vital drama. Arthur is doing most 
of it- 

“Hicks is the mine detective. He wrote me 



112 


The Shaft in the Sky 

that as soon as he got my letter he looked up Gui- 
bert and found him a place to live with McLana- 
han—the man they’re watching. When Sturte- 
vant spoke at Bloody Hollow Hicks went to the 
meeting with Guibert. After the meeting Guibert 
went up and spoke to Sturtevant and the two of 
them left the hall together. Hicks followed them 
to McLanahan’s house and waited outside an 
hour. Then he left:” 

“Has he told Mr. George White?” 

“Evidently not. I’ve written him to mention 
Sturtevant’s visit merely as part of his report on 
McLanahan’s activities. Oh, er, by the way—I 
cashed your check myself and sent Hicks the 
money—safer that way.” 

“Did you say something about a girl?” 

He would rather have left that out. It was 
inartistic. But the question was direct. 

“Yes. Er, Hicks said that a week after this 
happened McLanahan’s daughter—very pretty 
girl—packed her duds and left for Washington. 
And that the Frenchman said Sturtevant was go¬ 
ing to take care of her. I told him to tell White 
that too. Must say, I hardly thought Sturtevant 
was that sort.” 

“He isn’t,” said Alice promptly. 

She had learned much in four months. Her 
conception of conspiracy was high and led her 
into strange pastures. At first her understanding 


New Earth 


113 


of the role had called for “facts”—to be “well 
informed” like the English woman at week-end 
parties or the French woman in her salon. She 
read newspapers voraciously and indiscriminate¬ 
ly. And pumped Arthur—the poet had his posi¬ 
tive if erotic theory on every topic and in the 
course of time she acquired a strange sort of “edu¬ 
cation” from him. The decadent school of poetry, 
the politics of materialism, the philosophies of 
Shaw, and even the intricacies of an oil specula¬ 
tion with which Arthur was toying as a kind of 
sop to the side of his nature which accused him 
of over-aestheticism. Lately, however, his pupil 
had come to an irrelevant conclusion that charac¬ 
ter and proper valuations counted more than in¬ 
formation. Thenceforth Arthur found his judg¬ 
ments generally rejected though his “facts” were 
still received. 

Of course it was all a bore, she told herself, 
and as soon as the election was over she would 
patch up her quarrel with Stella and begin to 
live again. 

“Do you—hate him as much as you did?” 
Arthur asked. 

Boernstein was playing “Elegie ” She mused, 
calm as philosophy. “After all,” she asked “what 
is hate? I don’t know.” 

“Two theories. Hate is repulsion or hate is 


114 


The Shaft in the Sky 

attraction like love requiring the presence of an 
objective. Freud-” 

“I want him in reach every minute—I want to 
hurt him—hurt—hurt!” she interrupted passion¬ 
ately. 

Arthur pressed her hand and held it. “Angel, 
dear angel—you can hate so—can’t you love a 

little bit r 

She was thoughtful. “Not even a little, Arthur., 
Rather too bad, isn’t it?” A year ago she would 
have been incapable of this philosophical bitter¬ 
ness. 

Her hand was warm in his. She was quite 
practical about sex. Once it had been a play¬ 
thing ; now it was a weapon in whose effectiveness 
she had unwavering faith—a weapon to be 
wielded lightly or heavily as occasion required. 
She was too young in the possession to think the 
weapon less than sure or to know with what 
infinite delicacy it must be wielded in the finer 
battles. 

Her hand was warm in Arthur’s but her 
thoughts were roaming the Seventh Congres¬ 
sional District. There was so much to worry 
about—and the election two weeks’ off! 

“The Seventh is usually Democratic, isn’t it?” 

“Gave Jones a small majority two years ago, 
yes. But Sturtevant’s Wilson politics will lose 
him lots of votes—Democratic ones too. On the 




New Earth 


115 


treaty question Hodges is for 'ratification with 
reservations’—good safe ground—'with reser¬ 
vations’ is a catch-all—it may mean anything. 
He’s taking votes from Sturtevant every day. 
And Trachtenberg, the Socialist, is calling him 
'White’s Minion’ and 'The Coal Company Can¬ 
didate’—effective stuff, you know!” 

"He’ll hardly be 'White’s Minion’ if Hicks 
makes his report, will he?” Alice snapped her 
jaw in exactly the way she remembered Gilchrist 
doing it. 

The poet’s arm had been sliding along the 
banister. Now it compassed her bare shoulders 
almost imperceptibly. 

"Sturtevant may find every element in the dis¬ 
trict down on him,” he said, ignoring (as acci¬ 
dental and of no consequence) the Aenead of his 
arm, "no limit to what old White’ll do if he be¬ 
lieves Hicks, but you can bet he’ll give up his 
candidate before he’ll give up his coal company.” 

The Political Expounder’s arm drew its content 
closer now and Expounder kissed Expoundee— 
"—if he does repudiate Sturtevant he’ll do it on 
the quiet—no public statement—just a few orders 
to his people and the trick’s done—that’s what 
makes—politics—so—fascinating—to me—Alice 
—darling-” 

"Arthur, you’re kissing me!” she informed him 





116 The Shaft in the Sky 

coldly and brought the political tete-a-tete to an 
end. Political it was—all of it. 

A moment later she was dancing—with Hugh 
—inside. How she loved Hugh! 

Boernstein was playing “Haunt of the 
Witchesr 


Chapter Ten 


/ AM not interested in this election—White/’ 
Chairman Brown had asked Mr. White 
to be present at Essex when Sturtevant made his 
final election-eve speech. This was the answer. 
It troubled Mr. Brown. It was highly irregular., 
It cramped his oratory when he introduced Gil¬ 
christ, dimmed his appreciation of the candidate’s 
ringing enthusiasm, and sophisticated his faith 
in the loud and loyal applause of the farmer 
audience. 

On the way to the train after the meeting he 
showed Gilchrist the telegram. The other’s in¬ 
difference perplexed him still further. 

“I calculate if it’s a little misunderstanding, I 
might-” 

“Thanks, no, Mr. Brown,” Gilchrist antici¬ 
pated him dryly. “There’s nothing to be done—* 
I expected it. I’m afraid he and I are as far 
apart as our friend McLanahan and I. At an¬ 
other time this might have been serious but not 
now. The lines along which we’re fighting this 
election are too long to be dominated by any party 
organization.” 



118 


The Shaft in the Sky 

“He’s a purty big man. It-” 

“I have complete confidence. Mr. White 
represents the old school of politics—this is a new 
era—the electorate’s awake.” He was irritated 
at the other’s nervousness. 

“Hope so but I dunno,” said Mr. Brown 
apologetically. “I dunno.” 

But Gilchrist’s faith was immune. It was a 
faith in himself and his destiny more than in the 
electorate. He had never yet failed. He never 
would! To every struggle he brought a sub¬ 
conscious conviction that victory was a thing he 
might command from sheer intensity of his in¬ 
dividual will. 

He sat in the empty smoking room while his 
berth was being made up, and permitted himself 
to relax. To-morrow—New York—and Hugh! 
Hugh was coming over to Millicent Bronson’s 
debut party. There would be many of the Wash¬ 
ington people there. Perhaps Alice! He would 
be perfectly pleasant and easy with Alice. And 
at night Hugh’s supper party! Hugh had prom¬ 
ised him that on election night. Good old Hugh! 
It would be balm to bathe away the stains and 
wearinesses of the last few months in Hugh’s 
easy philosophy. He felt indulgent. He would 
subordinate himself tomorrow to the whims and 
foibles of his friend, pretend himself for a day a 
man like Hugh—only an eyewitness to the great 



New Earth 


119 


movements of the period, truly concerned with 
nothing but individuals! Yes, Hugh was the 
delightful sort of chap who could never be Presi¬ 
dent of the United States but who might with 
utter unconcern clap a President on the back and 
be his best friend. Gilchrist even followed this 
thought a little. 

Morning found him no less indulgent. He pa¬ 
tronized New York. Pushing through crowded 
subway doors with Hugh, dodging across thun¬ 
dering traffic, laughing with his fellows at a 
vaudeville, he pretended himself a little human 
creature like all the rest of New York, lost in the 
great mass of humanity like the rest—and knew 
that he was only pretending. He could enjoy this 
game of littleness because fathom deep in his con¬ 
sciousness was the knowledge that he was big and 
that even as he permitted New York to swamp his 
individuality Destiny was marching to the polls 
with an even larger one for him. He loved Hugh! 
He loved New York! Loved his fellow-man 
pushing and bumping him from every direction. 
There was inspiration in the unconcern and big¬ 
ness of the city—in its very unfriendliness! He 
was a conqueror! He had even conquered Alice! 

She was not at the Bronson affair.: He be¬ 
lieved he was politely sorry. Spying her father 
across a refreshment table with John Hampton 
from Washington, he tugged at Hugh’s arm and 


120 


The Shaft in the Sky 

they went over to greet the older men. Gilchrist 
admired Robert Deering. In the old days he had 
loved to identify in the daughter certain qualities 
of courage and generosity he found in the father. 
The liking was mutual; Gilchrist had a knack with 
older men—if he thought them worth it. Where 
Alice had found heaviness her father had found 
dignity; the earnestness that bored her captured 
her father. The mutual admiration was en¬ 
hanced perhaps by a dearth of common interest., 
Mr. Deering disliked politics and Gilchrist had no 
notion of science or business. 

To-day, though, Gilchrist was patron of all arts 
—even the art of patronizing. After the party 
he and Hugh walked with Mr. Deering and his 
lawyer back to the hotel. Mutual goodwill de¬ 
termined Gilchrist to talk of finance and Mr. 
Deering to talk of the election. 

“Infernal jam at the Bronson’s/' said the older 
man, “just dropped in. I was in college with 
Bronson.” 

“Over on business, I suppose?” 

Mr. Deering stopped to buy a paper. “Yes, 
John Hampton’s getting me in the newspapers 
again. Trust a lawyer.” He stopped under a 
street lamp to read, careless of curious glances 
from passersby. “Now look at you, John— 
crowding out election news. Don’t you know they 
need this front page for Gilchrist to-day.” 


121 


New Earth 

Over his shoulder they read—“$ 15,000,000 
Syndicate to Develop Oil Lands. Western 
Leasing Company backed by Deering Interests.. 
To Exploit Properties under Oil Leasing Law.” 

“There’s politics and journalism for you,” said 
Mr. Deering and put the paper in his pocket.; 
“Rotten professions!” 

“Oh, I say, Mr. Deering-” Hugh protested, 

“you’re on my toe.” 

“Mine too,” said Gilchrist, smiling. 

“He’s really on two of my toes, Hugh,” John 
Hampton explained, “Somebody pulled a few 
wires in the newspaper offices and at the Capital 
—he blames me. Always does.” 

“You’re right about politics, Mr. Deering,” 
said Hugh with malice, “it takes everything and 
gives nothing. Better a man is the sooner it be¬ 
trays him.” 

Gilchrist accepted the challenge. “I might 
say,” he parried, jauntily, “that in the journalist 
you have a picture of one who starves himself to 
death for the right to a top-gallery, back-row 
seat at the show.” 

Both of them felt that the smiles with which 
they spoke excused them for saying what they 
really thought. 

Mr. Deering was silent for the rest of the walk. 
Once or twice he looked sharply at Gilchrist and 
then at Hugh as if something puzzled him. He 



122 The Shaft in the Sky 

did not speak until they were about to separate at 
the hotel. 

“If its romance you want/’ he said earnestly 
and apropos of nothing, “all of that is in the world 
of business to-day.” He hesitated, avoiding John 
Hampton’s eye. “Now if you young men were 
willing I could show you a big field—a useful 
field.” He drew the newspaper out of his pocket 
and turned it over in his hands. “This is the age 
of oil. Next war’ll be won with oil. Here’s pa¬ 
triotism and profit combined—and romance. I— 
I could use you both in this-” 

Gilchrist snapped his jaw. Hugh grinned.; 

“Public life is a service to which I have dedi¬ 
cated myself too often to desert it now,” said the 
candidate, thinking of the morrow. 

Hugh was remembering Arthur Herrick. “I 
know a poet who’s digging oil,” he said, “no use 
for me though—can’t make a rhyme to save me.” 

Final editions of the afternoon papers an¬ 
nounced Sturtevant leading by a safe margin in 
returns from the first county of the ten in his 
district. The county was Essex. 

The Essex County Blade was one of the papers 
for which Hugh corresponded. He had arranged 
with them to telegraph election returns direct to 
the Plaza, where they would be delivered at his 
supper party. 



123 


New Earth 

Covers were laid for twelve. Hugh was going 
to do this handsomely if it bankrupted him. Mil- 
licent Bronson's debut party had been opportune 
in bringing so many of his friends from Wash¬ 
ington. 

Much wine flowed. In the back of Hugh's 
mind was a notion that he would allow himself 
much leeway in that direction to-night. Occasion 
of a lifetime! Nerve-wracking too, this toast¬ 
master business! Myrtis Bayne sat by him and 
he took her glass when she refused. Across the 
table from them was Winship Tennant. Winship 
had a good start; there had been some private 
stock in Blaine Todd’s room earlier. Blaine sat 
on the other side of Myrtis and concentrated on 
looking substantial. Gilchrist was at the head of 
the table near Hugh; at the other end was Stella 
Chambers with Captain Granville of the British 
Embassy on her right. 

Three courses—and the first telegram from 
Essex came. Hugh glanced at it and pushed back 
his chair, coughing for silence. He was charm¬ 
ingly nonchalant: 

‘'Fellow Democrats and Republicans-" 

Winship and Stella applauded. Winship waved 
his napkin. 

“-Good fortune has made me your toast¬ 

master on a most felicitious occasion! The modest 
young man at the end of the table who is just 




124 


The Shaft in the Sky 

now selecting from his delicatessen shop of words 
a few modest tidbits for your nibbling after I am 
finished, is in a most peculiar position. Little as 
you may believe it, the young man has been 
hounded from youth. If you will note him, ladies 
and gentlemen, you will guess at once that he is 
a victim—a victim of his own magnetic qualities. 
He can’t get away from them! I have heard—I 
believe it was Winship Tenant who told me—that 
some men are born great-” 

“That’s good, I say,” Stella interrupted loud¬ 
ly, “greatest day of your life, Winnie—day you 
were born!” 

“- 1 have heard, too—and Blaine Todd is my 

authority—that some achieve greatness. Blaine 
was on his way to lunch with the lady who sits on 
my right-” 

Stella was irrepressible. “Ah-h, some do and 
some don’t. What did he say after lunch? Speech 
from Myrtis!” 

Hugh was extending an eloquent arm at 

Stella. “-And I am reliably informed—by 

Stella herself—that some have greatness thrust 
upon them. When His Highness, the Prince of 
Wales, asked the ineffable privilege of presenting 
Stella with his photograph-” 

“Oh-h, stella !” Winship roared, “Thrust up¬ 
on you! That’s good, too. Stella lost a bet— 
didn’t get a photograph!” 







New Earth 


125 


“Bear with me, friends!” Hugh clinked his 
glass for order, “the patient young man at the 
end of the table bears on his shoulders the burden 
of a Winship Tennant, a Blaine Todd and a Stella 
Chambers rolled into one-” 

“Jolly good roll/' said Captain Granville, toast¬ 
ing Stella with his glass. 

“-Gilchrist Sturtevant,” the toastmaster 

continued in more serious vein, “was born great. 
For twenty-nine years—at home and abroad—we 
have watched him achieving more greatness. And 
to-night—as he sits here with us—the constitu¬ 
ency of his native state are about to thrust upon 
him a place in the National Legislature. Hear me, 
my friends, I will read you the rumble that an¬ 
nounces the landslide—the trickle that precedes 
the torrent-” 

The silence was polite—more polite than in¬ 
terested. Hugh flourished his telegram and read 
—“Essex County, 9:40 P. M. Returns from the 
twelve townships of Essex County and three of 
the ten townships of Marion County give Sturte¬ 
vant majority of 4,372 over Hodges.” 

Stella led the applause and forced it good- 
naturedly when it died too soon. Hugh was 
beaming at Gilchrist. “Speech, speech!” said 
Stella, still clapping. 

The toastmaster's glass was lifted. “Ladies 





126 


The Shaft in the Sky 

and Gentlemen, I toast you—the Honorable Gil¬ 
christ Sturtevant!” 

Gilchrist’s eyes were lowered. He was blush¬ 
ing. This, he felt, was the greatest moment of 
his life and he had nothing to say! What could 
he say? He realized what Hugh had forgotten— 
that these people had no real interest in the feel¬ 
ings crowding his breast at this minute. In all his 
speeches of the last four months none had been as 
hard as this one. He wished he could be some 
other personality, that for a little while life might 
mean for him what it meant for Stella. He 
forced his courage and resigned himself to flat¬ 
ness. 

‘‘You people know as well as I do,” he said 
simply, “that if this election is won, as it seems to 
be, the victory is not a personal one. There were 
principles too big to be denied. We fought a great 
war and we are just now beginning to reap the 
great fruits of that war. For men in all walks 
of life new worlds of development and expression 
are opening. And for women. More particular¬ 
ly for women, I will say. In the war and in the 
recent suffrage legislation women have won a 
new freedom. I feel that more than ever before 
the destinies of this country will be shaped by the 
influence of women. If, in the past, women have 
made and unmade the careers of men individually, 


New Earth 127 

they will in future make and unmake those careers 
collectively. I-” 

“Rich!” Stella whispered to Captain Granville, 
“that’s rich! I must tell Deering!” She knew 
more of the gossip about Gilchrist and Alice than 
any one present except Hugh. 

“-1 feel that in the idealism and courage of 

the newly franchised women of the Seventh Dis¬ 
trict lies much of the credit for to-day’s victory. 
I don’t think I can say anything else except to 
thank you for your very generous interest and 
to hope that in Washington you won’t cast me into 
the outer darkness that sometimes environs the 
Congressman!” 

He was down and this time it was Hugh who 
kept a somewhat balky applause on the move. 
“Might sound well in the newspapers,” Blaine 
whispered at Myrtis, “rather lame here, though.” 

Winship Tennant was on his feet, raising a 
fork overhead. “Hear, hear!” he said, thickly. 
“Who won the war! Most felicitous occasion, 
ladies—another toast to Commander Sturtevant 
—first in war—first in peace and first in—first in 
—the Congressional Country Club!” 

Two more courses, and conversation was rising, 
scattering, and rising again. Above it Stella’s 
unmusical drawl rose oftener and oftener. 
Stella’s reputation for sparkle and spice had been 
won more through a complete unrestraint than 




128 


The Shaft in the Shy 

through any native brilliance. She was an animal 
and a very healthy one. Acknowledging no laws, 
her conversation had the advantage of scope. Be¬ 
tween the odd fur she wore about her neck to¬ 
night and the upper frontiers of her evening gown 
glowed prodigal widths of firm white flesh, re¬ 
lieved by a single band over the left shoulder. It 
was a daring gown. Stella was twenty. She 
drank her champagne in gulps. 

A hotel page handed Hugh another telegram. 
“Bloody Hollow and all of Butler County return-* 
ing strong majorities for Hodges.” He passed 
this to Gilchrist without comment. The radical 
vote! To neither Hugh nor Gilchrist did this 
return seem important. Of course some counties 
must be lost. No one else paid any attention. 
Winship was tinkling two glasses for a 
hearing- 

“As I said—I repeat—most felicitous occasion. 
Going to call on lady with cat’s fur ’round her 
neck. Toast to Stella—you’re a cat, Stella— 
speaking too much! Stand up, Stella!” 

“My eye!” Stella drawled, leaning forward un¬ 
til her shoulders rested on the table. “Who gave 
you a drink, darling? You’re boiled, little boy— 
shut up or I’ll send you home!” 

Winship looked pained. Blaine Todd was 
drinking the toast alone. When he lowered his 
glass it fell and was shattered. Myrtis shrank 



New Earth 


129 


from him dubiously; the others laughed. He 
felt suddenly called upon to speak. There was a 
vague thought that in so doing he might prove his 
sobriety. “Toast to Stella!” he said in a steady 
voice, “we can’t hear anybody else. Let her speak 
and be done with it. Get up, Chambers!” 

“I won’t!” said Stella. 

Myrtis turned desperately to Hugh. This was 
a wild party! “I don’t think Stella should take 
champagne,” she said. 

Hugh laughed. “Thinks she’s the Buccaneer,” 
he murmured, “she was hand-picked and hand- 
raised by Alice. But she isn’t up to it. Doesn’t 
get the Buccaneer idea!” 

Winship’s two glasses were tinkling again. He 
was on his feet. “Who’s the toastmaster, any¬ 
how ! You are, Hugh. Now Mister Toastmaster 
—serious defection here—lady with the cat’s fur 
speaking continually—won’t get up. Very bad— 
most felicitous occasion. Appeal to you, Mister 
Toastmaster—toast to Mister Toastmaster— 
drinking to you, Hugh!” 

Firm applause from Blaine. Chairs were 
pushed back and the toast drunk. 

Delegated again by acclaim, Hugh lauded Stel¬ 
la’s modesty and Winship’s eloquence. He began 
to feel out of tune though and his effort lacked 
spontaneity. He was very conscious of Myrtis. 
His party had drunk itself out of his reach and 



130 


The Shaft in the Sky 

was sweeping by him under more progressive 
leadership. Winship and Blaine were a commit¬ 
tee of two lifting Stella by force from her chair 
to a standing position. 

“In the name of God, don’t undress me!” she 
protested hoarsely as the band over her shoulder 
slipped. 

Myrtis was scared. She turned to Hugh. 

But Hugh was oblivious of it all now. He was 
leaning forward with all his eyes on Gilchrist 
and a telegram he had just passed him. 

“Butter the cat’s paw,” Winship shouted, tap¬ 
ping at Stella’s bare shoulder with a lump of 
butter. 

Hugh didn’t hear. Myrtis tugged his sleeve. 
“I must go—it’s late,” she said tearfully. 

He looked at her as if he had never seen her 
before in his life. “Go?” he repeated blankly. 
“All right.” He seemed to remember some¬ 
thing and reached for his glass, drained it, and 
rose. 

Gilchrist was smiling. Crumpled in his hand 
was the telegram: “Returns from all but two 
townships of Seventh District give Hodges ma¬ 
jority of three to one over Sturtevant. Chairman 
Brown of Essex County Democratic Committee 
concedes election.” He toyed with the missive 
under the table and spoke to Millicent Bronson 
on his left. 


New Earth 


131 


“No, I haven’t seen Alice Deering in several 
months. Too bad she couldn’t come over for 
your party.” 

Noise of chairs pushed back and the flash of 
white napkins tossed on the table. Stella’s voice 
again—“Shouldn’t drink, Winnie dear—can’t 
hold it!” 

Gilchrist was thinking vaguely. Too bad! 
These people were not his sort—never would be! 
They were so much more poised and sure than 
himself—so cleverly indifferent! He felt more 
than ever embarrassed as he joined in the good- 
nights. He was glad none of them knew what 
was in the telegram. Perhaps they never would 
—he couldn’t think of them reading the morning 
papers! 

“Oh, Gik!” Hugh called from the door. “I’m 
taking Myrtis home. Meet you at the hotel in 
half an hour!” 

“All right, old man. Great party!” 

But half an hour later and three hours later 
Hugh was still pacing the deserted corridors of 
his hotel while Gilchrist in a taxicab coursed 
Central Park from end to end and around again. 
The late candidate for the Seventh District could 
find nothing intelligible or coherent in his soul ex¬ 
cept a great loneliness. Over and over he told 
himself “you have been beaten for Congress-” 



132 The Shaft in the Sky 

and the only reply that came back was “I am 
alone 

Paying the taxi driver at the hotel curb later 
this loneliness flashed suddenly into form. With 
all his heart he wanted Alice Deering! 


Chapter Eleven 


hated him! All day she wondered if he 
felt it, if he were suffering enough in defeat. 
She fondled her hate with a strange pride; 
longed to take it to him, let him see it. With the 
torn fragments of his picture set together on her 
mantel she faced him fiercely as she dressed for 
Cecilia’s debut party. 

Perhaps she might meet him there! If he went 
at all it would be late in the afternoon; she re¬ 
membered that he could rarely be coaxed from 
his office before six. She would go late! 

Cecilia was an important debutante. All of the 
social elect were making the pilgrimage, in car¬ 
riage and motor, silk hat and cutaway, satin and 
perfume, to the Lee house. There was to be no 
fanflare; people like the Lees could afford to be 
simple. 

It may have been because she was born there, 
but the house in which Cecilia lived was very 
much like Cecilia herself. The exterior was 
quietly well-bred—white stone, straight lines, 
with tall windows and a door that was neither 


133 


134 


The Shaft in the Sky 

4 

hospitable nor inhospitable. The interior was 
strictly modern—or seemed so at first sight. 
Nothing obtruded itself; there was light and air 
and space. But in the corners, in the unim¬ 
portant places, were treasures and incongruities 
to delight those who took the trouble to observe. 
Remarkable pictures placed without regard for 
show, delightful trinkets careless of position, rare 
books in matter-of-fact bookcases, eccentric 
pieces of furniture belonging to no particular 
period*and*not eccentric at all on second thought. 

“A fascinating place—without knowing it,” 
said Arthur Herrick. 

This was Cecilia—a treasurehouse of spiritual 
marvels of which she herself had no knowledge. 
There were inexplicable things about Cecilia. 
How, for instance, had she lived twenty years in 
an atmosphere of guile without a dowle of dupli¬ 
city ! Or how, in an environ of over-fed romance, 
had she never fancied herself in love! Or how, 
with a mind hardly used at all and rarely con¬ 
centrated anywhere, did she manage to be gen¬ 
erally right about people and things! 

Arthur admired her and was afraid of her. 
Occasionally he fell in love with her. “It takes 
time—falling in love with Cess,” he said. “But 
it’s worth it—you feel important—and as if you 
were doing a moral thing.” 

Although she did not enjoy life Cecilia enjoyed 


New Earth 


135 


the prospect of life with all her might. At tea 
she would think, “soon I’ll be dressing for dinner 
in my new chiffon”; at dinner she thought, “when 
dinner is over, it will be nice at the theatre.” But 
later, during the play, she would be thinking “I 
wonder if it will be crowded at Saint Mark’s after 
this!” To Hugh she stood for something almost 
satisfying but not quite, something to be loved 
with annoying mental reservations. “Your di¬ 
gestion is bad, Cess,” he would complain, “you 
don’t chew your minutes and hours thoroughly.” 
Cecilia would sigh and agree. He would be irri¬ 
tated and go on, “You ought to be alone—this 
'community existence’ never yet sprouted a soul. 
Why, why all the excitement—haven’t I told you 

‘the gods approve the-” 

--‘depth and not the tumult of the soul/ ” 

she would finish for him, singsong, and nod wisely 
without understanding. She attributed much of 
Hugh’s talk to the fact that he had once been a 
Socialist. 

The house was decidedly too small for the num¬ 
bers who thought the Lees important. Arthur 
Herrick chafed at the crush; he hated feeling him¬ 
self a part of anything. He had come with Mrs. 
Deering; Alice had been unbearably rude since 
election night and for some reason her mother 
had been very decent. (Mrs. Deering was in fact 
quite sentimental about him; hers was not the 





136 


The Shaft in the Sky 

nature to draw an age-limit in the rounds of ro¬ 
mantic intrigue through which she felt it neces¬ 
sary to move.) He escaped to a corner furthest 
from the reception “line” only to find himself 
helplessly tete-a-tete with Myrtis Bayne. He des¬ 
pised Myrtis; she was too easily pleased and too 
eager to please! Presently the little eddies and 
whirlpools into which people socially bent direct 
themselves washed Senator Calhoun in their di¬ 
rection and left him high and dry in the same 
corner. The Senator’s presence at social affairs 
always provoked there eddies and whirlpools in 
his vicinity—drawn by the singular spectacle of a 
man of note who could nevertheless be a man of 
charm in a gallant old fashion. When a truly 
big man has all the guilelessness and enthusiasm 
of a child, Society mothers him joyfully as a rare 
and novel thing. So it was against a veritable 
current of performing and admiring ladies that 
the Senator had gracefully given way to the 
corner where Myrtis, in “sweet-girl” manner, 
greeted him- 

“Oh, Senator Calhoun, you don’t remember 
me. I’m Myrtis Bayne. Father speaks of you 
so often.” 

The Senator took her hand automatically—in 
the long retreat from the receiving line he had 
held so many. 

“Indeed, most pleasantly, Miss Myrtis. It is 



New Earth 


137 


an honor to have you remember me. But do I find 
you cornered with a poet (nodding to Arthur 
without relinquishing the hand) ?—When Lord 
Byron whispers, you know—has he ?” 

“Lord Byron/’ was innocent; Myrtis inspired 
no whispers in the poet. Seeing her now, alto¬ 
gether dazzled by the Senator and conversation¬ 
ally lost, he took it on himself to reply: 

“I sit at your feet there, Senator. If I whisper 
it is in modesty alone—the pupil in presence of 
the master!” 

Which was nicely turned, he considered. 

Caught between this crossfire of genius Myrtis 
changed the subject. 

“Isn’t it too bad, Senator, that Gilchrist Sturte- 
vant was defeated. Father says it’s a great dis¬ 
appointment for you.” 

The Senator looked suddenly as if he had been 
astonished and outwitted in repartee. 

'“Why, yes,” he said, “I hope your father is 
well.” 

“How do you explain Sturtevant’s defeat, Sena¬ 
tor?” Arthur had the vaguely pleasant feeling 
of one who pulls marionettes by a string. 

The other’s urbanity disappeared. He spoke 
with fervor- 

“Sturtevant was beaten by the most sinister 
element that has ever raised head in the republic. 
His candidacy was destroyed by a group whose 



138 


The Shaft in the Sky 

design it is to destroy everything. He failed be¬ 
cause he was too clean to compromise with forces 
which have throttled Russia and are seeking to 
throttle all industrial life in America. He is his 
country's first casualty in the battle with Bolshe¬ 
vism." Senator Calhoun’s face was stern; his 
tea-party manner was gone now and he was “the 
little giant" again. “The first skirmish in the 
battle of Armageddon—the final battle of good 
and evil—has been lost!" 

Arthur wondered what the old chap was driv¬ 
ing at. Armageddon! He had always felt him¬ 
self competent to do mental gymnastics in any 
environ; this one was perplexing but he was not 
to be dazzled. He introduced himself with a few 
intellectual handsprings- 

“I agree, Senator—quite! To a man of taste 
the atmosphere of radicalism must always be un¬ 
pleasant. The radical is a pioneer perhaps—but 
by that token he is crude; he has left behind him 
all the experience and refinements of the ages, 
and his emotional and intellectual processes are 
necessarily raw even if strong. An awkward, 
self-conscious chap—the radical. Art can never 
go along with pioneers of that type." 

Wierd talk at a debut tea in Washington! 
Myrtis thought so, at least, and was uncomfort¬ 
able. The “little giant," however, seemed little 
impressed. He did not care for Art. 




New Earth 


139 


“Not a question of taste, Mr. Herrick,” he said 
impatiently, “great principles of right and wrong 
are at stake.” 

For his part Arthur cared as little for Right 
and Wrong as the other did for Art. Also in 
another sense, he felt that at this particular 
moment the Right was on his side. When we 
speak of the day the statesman may answer if he 
can; but when we approach the eternal—in hu¬ 
man nature or human history—it is to the poet- 
philosopher we must turn. He ignored the Sena¬ 
tor's impatience, with the same vague conscious¬ 
ness of pulling marionettes- 

“For example, Senator, the atrocious trick of 
labelling things and leaving them. I once talked 
an entire evening with a Socialist. At the end of 
it he called me a 'sentimentalist' and left. He 
had settled me with a word—summed me up. 
Perhaps I am a sentimentalist—whatever that 
means. But I am also a Presbyterian, I prefer 
art to nature, I am fond of motoring, I like dark¬ 
haired women, I eat soft boiled eggs for break¬ 
fast—there are lots of things about me. But for 
that Socialist I was pigeon-holed—Sentimental¬ 
ist. The world is all new to them and there is so 
much of it they must make these desperately 
broad classifications. Although they would never 
confess it, they believe in heroes and villains. 
Useful ? Most probably—I suppose Progress has 



140 


The Shaft in the Sky 

to happen like that—thrusting an uncouth, in¬ 
exact foot forward. But count me out—it isn’t 
Art!” 

He was entranced with his own impromptu 
analysis but the Senator’s attention was wander¬ 
ing. 

“By the way, Senator,” he added, remembering 
the marionettes, “surprising to hear you say Stur- 
tevant was beaten by the radical vote. I had 
heard he was hand in glove with them!” 

The Senator stared at him. He seemed more 
provoked than startled. This young Herrick be¬ 
gan to be a jabbering fool! 

“A preposterous idea,” he said, yielding to an 
accumulated anger, “and one which no friend of 
Gilchrist Sturtevant’s would credit or repeat. He 
could not well be associated with the very men 
responsible for his defeat.” He turned abruptly 
to Mrs. Deering who was approaching with a 
swarthy South American gentleman. Myrtis had 
a perplexed impression of an interview ended 
with sudden and inexplicable heat. 

“Essentially illogical,” Arthur explained to her 
and left to look for Alice. 

Still the pilgrims flowed down the receiving 
line. It was late—and Mrs. Lee and her 
daughter were beginning to let themselves think 
of slippers and kimonas and a place to sit down— 
when Hugh Cothran and Gilchrist Sturtevant 



141 


New Earth 

arrived. Cecilia thought they looked very 
straight and tall and earnest in their smooth cut¬ 
aways. Hugh’s eyes on her were all admiring 
proprietorship. 

“Honestly, Gik, isn’t she a nice debutante!” 

“Indeed you are, Miss Lee,” his friend agreed.; 
“I congratulate you.” He hestitated. “I hope all 
the best things that come to debutantes will come 
to you.” 

The late candidate was thinner than when 
Cecilia had seen him last. And there was some¬ 
thing odd about his evident desire to be easy and 
gay. Oh well, she thought—naturally! 

“Thank you Mister Sturtevant,” she said 
brightly, “but—don’t you think—we’re both such 
old friends of Hugh. Perhaps I might be spared 
the—Miss!” 

“Then—Cecilia you are,” he bowed, smiling, 
“it’s rather hard to say. You see you’re such an 
important debutante.” 

“Important debutante!” Hugh exclaimed, “God 
forbid! She’s only playing. She really is just 
little old Cess dead tired. Isn’t that a good look¬ 
ing cushion chair—just think—you could fall 
into it—and stretch—and pull your feet up under 
you—and take your shoes off—and hold my hand! 
I’d sing something.” 

“Young men, are you talking nonsense to my 
daughter?” Mrs. Lee scolded, forcing a weary 



142 


The Shaft in the Shy 

smile. The cushion chair nonsense was infinitely 
alluring, she thought. “For shame—from jour¬ 
nalists and statesmen!” 

At the last word there was a little pause. 
Hugh looked self-conscious. “Don’t say states¬ 
men, Mrs. Lee. Gik and I are sensitive.” 

Because she was truly a gentlewoman Cecilia’s 
mother knew when to be frank. She turned to 
Gilchrist. 

“I suppose Hugh means the election. You must 
know how sincerely we had hoped for your suc¬ 
cess, Mr. Sturtevant. You are young enough not 
to be too much discouraged, I’m sure.” 

He bowed gravely. “Thank you Mrs. Lee—I 
—perhaps you are right about my youth.” As no 
one else spoke he felt obliged to continue. “Yes— 
it was rather, er—overwhelming.” 

Hugh gave his shoulder an exaggerated shrug. 
“Our head is ‘bloody but unbowed,’ Mrs. Lee,” he 
asserted. 

“Certainly,” said Gilchrist as if he had been 
asked a question. 

They passed on to make way for more arrivals. 
In the next room Mrs. Adyngton-Sims was pour¬ 
ing Senator Calhoun a cup of tea. The Senator 
looked out-talked; he nodded Hugh an eager in¬ 
vitation to join them but the latter tugged his 
friend quickly away. 



143 


New Earth 

Watch out—he wants to plant that ‘charming 
lady’ on us!” 

"Let’s go, anyhow,” said Gilchrist, ‘Tve had 
enough.” 

A few moments later they had recovered their 
hats and were on the stoop outside. A familiar 
car was rolling up to the sidewalk. The street was 
still, strikingly still after the din inside, wrapped 
in the last glow of a sun that had been long gone. 

“Purple twilight!” Hugh exclaimed as if he 
were swearing. 

The vaguely familiar car stopped, discharged 
its passengers, and rolled away. Up the path 
from the sidewalk came Ruth Durand and Alice 
Deering. 

Gilchrist saw them first and braced himself 
nervously. “Hello,” said Ruth, self-conscious. 

But Alice was not embarrassed; she could not 
have planned the thing better. Hugh felt her 
affectionate pat on his shoulder, heard her steady 
“how do you do, Gilchrist” and stared at her 
dumbly. She was looking squarely at the villain 
of a certain piece outside the Purple Iris. In the 
bold black of her eyes were malice, triumph, 
mockery—and youth. 

Gilchrist smiled. He was facing her nobly 
now, the gray of his own eyes deep, self-con¬ 
tained, expressive of too much to express any¬ 
thing definable. In the twilight of the street he 


144 


The Shaft in the Sky 

looked old, gaunt. Yet something in the figure 
he made, some forgotten affinity of spirit with 
her, was robbing Alice of the moment. Com¬ 
mercing with the gray eyes all the malice, all the 
mockery and triumph, all the youth, seemed to 
withdraw from the black; now there was no vic¬ 
tory, no defeat. Strangely the woman’s eyes be¬ 
came as sober, as fathomless, as noble as the 
man’s. Longer than would enemies—or friends 
—the black and gray communed. Then the black 
lowered and the gray passed on. Nothing else 
was said and Alice and Ruth entered the house. 


Part Two: 


NEW HEAVEN 



Chapter Twelve 


'/'HERE are damnable things. Heavenly ones 
y too, even if, as Arthur Herrick liked to put 
it, a cynic age has scrapped Heaven and Hell. 
“And wiped out the entire population of those 
places” he would assert, “so that to-day there are 
no saints and no sinners—no heroes, no villains; 
the man who raided German trenches in 1918 may 
be identic (he liked that word) with the crook 
who sells fictitious securities to gullible gamblers 
to-morrow.” Arthur of course used the example 
because he was himself an investor in oil securi¬ 
ties and was on the watch for business villainy. 

He was a great friend of Sturtevant’s now. 
Indeed he pursued the other with his friendship 
in a way that would have irritated Hugh but 
which flattered Gilchrist. His volte face had no 
background of conscience; it was altogether emo¬ 
tional. In the months which followed his success¬ 
ful “conspiracy” to alienate George White from 
his candidate, his own fortunes had brought him 
to a place where it was altogether natural that he 
should warm towards Gilchrist. The jealousy and 

dislike he had felt for “the great young man” 

147 


148 


The Shaft in the Sky 

became sympathy and attraction when he found 
(or conceived that he had found) the “great 
young man” no longer great but merely a fellow- 
victim of a certain ruthless and unscrupulous 
spirit. The false gayety and belligerent cynicism 
he thought he detected in Gilchrist now made him 
long to say “we have been burned in the same 
fire” but he didn’t quite dare—there was some¬ 
thing about the other which held that sort of sym¬ 
pathy at arm length. So he marked appropriate 
passages in a volume of Swinburne and presented 
it to his new friend. “Swinburne is high-priest 
of a love that burns and dies” he remarked in 
faltering explanation. Whereupon Gilchrist had 
done something he would never have done a few 
weeks earlier—he had blushed. 

Arthur even offered Gilchrist an opportunity 
to share in his oil venture. When the other 
evinced a keen interest he was surprised. And 
vaguely disappointed—the offer had been more in 
the nature of a compliment than with any idea of 
its serious acceptance. It wasn’t the sort of thing 
for Gilchrist, of course, and spoiled Arthur’s new 
conception of him. The poet was positive of mak¬ 
ing the oil thing a go; he wanted to keep Gilchrist 
as part of that other world of his—that world of 
romantic defeat and wounded love which should 
be a dramatic background to business triumphs. 

Indeed his new enthusiasm for Gilchrist 



149 


New Heaven 

brought him no nearer to understanding the latter. 
He still believed him in league with revolutionists 
and involved in a liaison with the daughter of one 
of them. But what of that? Every man to his 
taste! Arthur counted himself a thorough man 
of the world. 

As for Alice, he was still bitterly sentimental 
about her., He nourished the bitterness until it 
became a prized possession. It wasn’t that she 
had shut a door in his face. If she had he might 
have contrived a more dramatic frame for his 
desolation. But she had been subtle about it, 
treating him exactly as if the events of the sum¬ 
mer and fall had never occurred. Without words, 
without even the enactment of a dumb “scene,” 
she had let him understand that the sentimental 
and demonstrative were dismissed from their re¬ 
lationship. He saw her rarely now; he accepted 
her fiat because it was his nature to accept what¬ 
ever was affirmative in his horizon. Strong men 
—like Gilchrist Sturtevant—create their environ¬ 
ments, or go down in the attempt; able, philoso¬ 
phic men like Hugh Cothran exploit their environ¬ 
ments, or ignore them. Arthur could neither cre¬ 
ate nor exploit; he could only reflect. He was 
creature of every circumstance or experience 
Chance flung his way. Without will to shake 
from life what he wanted of it or faculty to build 
something excellent out of what life brought 


150 


The Shaft in the Sky 

him, he was merely photographic of every fortune 
he might happen through. 

Late in January a spectacular snowstorm ar¬ 
rived to mantle the long streets with white magic 
and people the air with dim-flying flakes. Brood¬ 
ing luxuriously over Alice, smoking many ciga¬ 
rettes, and coaxing himself into a blissful self- 
pity, Arthur watched the storm from his window 
and conceived how heroic a figure he might make 
in the maelstrom outside. It was an alluring 
role; late in the afternoon he donned a battered 
hat and trench coat and set forth to act the part. 
Plowing through the white gale around the Mall 
he flung his soul tragic tidbits of other sentimen¬ 
talists in other days. “Nature red in tooth and 
claw” he muttered over clenched teeth as the 
hurtling flakes whipped his face- 

“Out of the night that covers me, 

Black as the pit from pole to pole, 

I thank whatever gods there be 
For my unconquerable soul!” 

He rather wished he might meet Alice—that 
she might see him bravely 'carrying on.” He re¬ 
membered a certain curl behind her ear and shook 
his head in histrionic anger- 

“Am I mad that I should cherish 
That which bears but bitter fruit! 

I will pluck it from my bosom 
Though my heart be at the root!” 




151 


New Heaven 

Ah, but the desolation of it! (He sighed deep¬ 
ly and the wet freshness of the air was tonic to 
his delight; he was having the time of his life.) 
“The light of a whole life dies when love is done.” 
Yet how impossible she was, anyhow! He hated 
her for the subordinate post she had dared as¬ 
sign him. How little she could appreciate or un¬ 
derstand a man of sensibilities! How blunt and 
raw and unwomanly was her very strength! He 
had been deceived in her. Or had she changed 
in these recent weeks ? Certainly the riotous, ani¬ 
mal Alice he had loved last summer, lusting for 
life and daring all to have it, was worlds away 
from the firm, unemotional, maddeningly pleasant 
young woman who had lately smothered him out 
of her life. There was something smooth and 
sour about her now. 

A stiff quip of wind threatened his hat; he 
clutched it firmly. Courage! In some dim recess 
of the future a real woman waited for him! The 
One Woman! Beside Her Alice was a hoyden, a 
female martinet masquerading as Frivolity in a 
freakish dress of Folly! He remembered his 
whimsical rhyme to her after the Deering din¬ 
ner— 

“Alice, when the wine is red 
You stir my heart and turn my head; 

Every sober scruple flies, 

Intoxicate to torrid eyes, 



152 


The Shaft in the Sky 

And you (who know how well you may) 

Frivol all my peace away. 

To-night ’twas Wisdom made me go— 

But Folly sings ‘a bientot!’ ” 

Decadent verse! Decadent womanhood to in¬ 
spire it! He puffed her away with a breath that 
was steam in the frosty air—then drew her back 
again wet and fresh. After all, there was much 
he could never forget. That other verse later 
on when his passion had gone deep- 

“Alice Deering, in your eyes 
Life a-riot happy lies; 

In-washed shell on sea-blown dune, 

Clashing cymbal, loud bassoon, 

Etch a mortal Paradise! 

Read the stars—a whisper clear 
Echoes in her jeweled ear, 

Quarrels with her happy skies, 

Upward quickens, thrills, and cries, 

‘Alice, Love is coming near !’ ” 

Those days are gone—that dream is done! 
Courage! How the gale blows! How it tightens 
the muscles of the face and sets the jaw stern and 
bold! Across the Potomac now was the soft hint 
of sunset, pink through cloud banks and drifting 
snow, warm along the river's lip. That Other— 
the Real Woman in whom he must believe! 
Faintly he conceived Her—pale, laughing lips— 
eyes he could not see! 

The gale was dying; now the snowfall had 




New Heaven 


153 


become intermittent and thin. At the Lincoln 
Memorial he turned back. In a little while, with 
the setting sun, the wind and snow had ceased. 
Peace and twilight about him as he walked, and 
crunching of snow underfoot. Approaching the 
Mall he passed the Munitions Building and felt 
the thrill that always came to him when the Wash¬ 
ington Monument towered into sight. He mused 
on it. He had planned a verse about the Monu¬ 
ment someday—there was something supreme 
about it—appealed to the mystic—in another age 
there might have been a sect of Monument Wor¬ 
shippers ! The Shaft in the Sky! 

In front of him he heard a low, musical ex¬ 
clamation. A young woman whom he was about 
to overtake had slipped and fallen sidewise into 
the snow. With a startled “Oh, too bad—hope 
you aren’t hurt” he stepped forward quickly and 
helped her to her feet. She brushed the snow 
from her shoulder and laughed acknowledgment 
of his aid—“No, not a bit, thank you.” 

He hesitated, and forgot to pick up a book she 
had been carrying. Silence and twilight—and 
this quiet, melodious voice. Something seemed to 
make the whole situation unusual. He had a 
strange sense of being in the midst of one of life’s 
“moments.” But the girl said nothing more and 
he could only lift his hat and walk on ahead. 

Then it was as if he had not seen her at all 


154 


The Shaft in the Sky 

until his back was turned. He began to recall a 
number of things about her and to swallow hard. 
What color! Dignity! Her voice and eyes! 
This was no ordinary girl! Too simply dressed 
to be a government worker! Something indefin¬ 
able—a sort of radiance—or what was it? He 
continued walking forward but all his conscious¬ 
ness was on the one behind him. Who was she ? 
It had all been so simple, quick! Poetry in it! 
After the storm—in the twilight! Could it be— 
nonsense—the One Woman—who waited for 
him! 

He had only to think it to believe it. And every 
step taking him away! He gritted his teeth and 
felt stronger. A mere convention to keep them 
apart! He would stop and wait for her to come 
up! More than that—he would turn back! She 
was coming, a hundred yards in rear. He began 
walking towards her and presently saw her recog¬ 
nize him, sensed the mild inquiry in her eyes, 
and hastened to speak while his courage held- 

“Excuse me—I—I don’t want to be annoying,” 
he began lamely. Then he regained his belief in 
the Importance of this thing—“but—I seem to 
know you’ll understand—I—you’re sure you are¬ 
n’t hurt?” 

She had stopped, surprised but polite. “Why, 
no—I’m perfectly all right,” she said. 

His adventure once launched, Arthur felt him- 







155 


New Heaven 

self exalted. He tried to speak quietly but his 
voice broke a little, 

“Do you believe there is one woman for every 

-” he began, and then, conscious once more of 

creating an extraordinary impression, stammered, 
“I—I know I must sound absurd—but its only 

that I want to know you and—and-” He 

could think of nothing else to say. 

Her lips were parted in perplexity. “But why 
should you want to know me? You speak as 
though you’d seen me before?” 

“I have—I have,” he said fervently, “look— 
you’ve got to believe in me, I’m—here’s my card 
—I’m a decent sort—you can find out about me. 
I want you to let me—to tell me your name—let 
me see you again. 'You don’t know how—how 
much it means!” 

A faint solicitude came into her manner. She 
was quite self-possessed. The poet had thrust 
the card into her hand and was standing humbly 
in her path, imploring with his eyes. 

“I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else,” 
she said very gently, examining the card, “I’m 
sorry—you—you must let me pass now.” 

At the suggestion that he was blocking her way 
Arthur’s conception of the “moment” underwent 
a lightning change. He was making unpleasant 
advances on the street! He was being a cheap 
flirt—insulting a decent girl! Here was some- 





156 


The Shaft in the Sky 

thing ugly! All the artist in him was mortified. 
With lowered eyes he stepped awkwardly out into 
the deeper snow crowding the path. The girl 
passed falteringly by and disappeared into the 
twilight,. 


Chapter Thirteen 


yENATOR CALHOUN’S secretary was mak- 
^ ing careful replies to the newspapermen in 
his office. 

“No, not until ten. He instructed me to say 
that the bill is to be known as the Sturtevant Plan 
for Adjudication of Industrial Disputes. The 
Senator wishes it understood that the idea is Mr. 
Sturtevant’s.” 

“And where is Sturtevant, Miss McLanahan?” 
asked Floyd of the Courie r. He was the business¬ 
like type of journalist to whom a bright eye and 
a charming manner were all in the day’s work; 
the girl was not a girl at all—merely a Senator’s 
secretary. Because of this the particular girl 
liked him. 

“He has an appointment here at eleven.” 

“Good, we’ll get him then. I’d like to feature 
this next Sunday.” 

The fourth estate retired. 

Anne McLanahan set about opening the mail. 

In spite of Floyd’s matter-of-fact assumption, 

she was not “merely a Senator’s secretary.” 

There was something special about Anne. She 

157 


158 


The Shaft in the Sky 

looked her part here no better than she had at 
Bloody Hollow on the night of Gilchrist’s visit. 
Personality has no particular place and will out- 
stand any place. Most women are of one type or 
another but Senator Calhoun’s secretary could not 
be classified. She was herself. Call her a very 
pretty girl—the label is conventional and con¬ 
fining; point the peculiar clearness of an olive 
skin through which she can blush pink; say her 
features are as firm as they are round and that 
her nose is a trifle prominent as Washington 
noses go; speak of the delicate and spiritual vi¬ 
tality her movements suggest; grow perfervid 
and call her a radiant soul—these are only ad¬ 
jectives attached to a noun—the noun, the per¬ 
sonality, can carry the adjectives without betray¬ 
ing its own essence! 

“Good-morrow, Miss Anne!” said Hugh Coth¬ 
ran from the doorway a moment later, “may I 
come in—I have come in!” 

“Yes—but the Senator isn’t here yet.” She 
had no understanding of flippancies but was tol¬ 
erant of them. 

“Party last night? You must watch this giddy 
Senator of yours—he’s awfully normal, you 
know.” 

“You don’t think-” she caught herself tak¬ 

ing Hugh seriously, and began again, “The re- 



New Heaven 159 

porters were in to ask about his new bill. It’s to 
be called the ‘Sturtevant Plan.’ ” 

“Good!” said Hugh, looking thoughtful, 
“Good!” he repeated, “it was about Gik I wanted 
to talk to him. Er—we’ll talk, you and I—shall 
we!” 

“Surely.” She sat up in her chair, pleased and 
curious. 

Hugh was embarrassed now at his own atmos¬ 
phere of confidence. “You know—there are all 
sorts of ways of going to the dogs.” 

“No! I mean—are there?” 

“Some people go on purpose—all at once. I 
do it like that myself—its fun.” 

“Yes,” she agreed, not in the least understand¬ 
ing what he was driving at. She liked Hugh as 
much as she little comprehended him. 

“Well, Gik’s the other kind. Does it gradually 
and doesn’t know about it.” 

“Does what?” 

“Goes to the bow-wows.” 

“But—why should he?” 

“Oh, I don’t know. He believes in too many 
things. Shaw says a cynic is a disillusioned ideal¬ 
ist. It doesn’t matter.” 

“A cynic doesn’t believe things any more but 
once did ?” Anne examined the idea. 

“Well, I’m a bit of one myself,” Hugh boasted, 
“but he’s losing his confidence. Its hard to say 


160 


The Shaft in the Sky 

just how he has changed. He’s cheerful—yes— 
that’s the thing—he’s too damned cheerful—oh, 
excuse me, Miss Anne!” 

“Its father’s favorite word.” She was decid¬ 
ing that Hugh was the most attractive man she 
had ever met. “Mr. Sturtevant was disappointed 
about the election?” 

“Yes—I suppose he was. But-” 

“What does he do now?” 

“Law—supposedly. As a matter of fact he’s 
spending his money in a fool oil stunt with Ar¬ 
thur Herrick.” 

“Herrick?” she asked quickly. 

“Yes—why?” 

Senator Calhoun was in the doorway in a 
derby hat which he doffed gallantly to Anne, and 
then brandished at Hugh- 

“Aha—Hugh, you’re caught, sir. I should 
have warned my colleague.” He turned to Anne 
again, “Good-morning, Senator?” 

“Good-morning, Senator Calhoun.” She was 
blushing. She could never understand why he 
called her “Senator” too. 

“How do you like my new hat?” He put it on 
and waited her comment with confidence. 

Anne looked at the hat and then looked appeal¬ 
ingly at Hugh who was shaking his head. When 
she spoke, tragedy was in her voice- 




New Heaven 161 

“Oh, I’m so sorry/' she faltered, “I’m afraid 
I don’t like it.” 

“A bit singular, Senator,” Hugh agreed, 
“hardly your style. Too nattish for a man of 
your—er—dignity.” 

The Senator was grieved. He mused on him¬ 
self in the mirror, trying the hat at several angles, 
pleased with each one. Then he put it on his 
desk and looked at it bitterly. 

“You and Hugh are queer folks, Senator,” he 
said, “I’ve been universally admired in this 
hat.” 

He was childishly exasperated, but he untied 
the box in which he had brought away his old 
felt, took it out and put the derby in its place. 

Hugh followed him into the inner office and 
talked about Gilchrist. Both of them loved Gil¬ 
christ but it was hard for either of them to un¬ 
derstand him, particularly at this time. For them 
the motive power of life came from outside; in 
their reactions to people and things they had all 
the stimulus their natures required. 

“I lost my first campaign,” said the Senator, 
“its the hardest one of all to lose.” 

“Oh politics,” Hugh scoffed, “he doesn’t mind 
that so much. There’s a girl, you know. Alice 
Deering.” 

“Charming creature! But Gilchrist isn’t a 
lover. I can only think that is an incident.” 



162 


The Shaft in the Sky 

Hugh nodded, lit a cigarette, threw it away, 
and tapped at the desk with a pencil. 

“Maybe we’re both wrong. I don’t believe he 
gives a little damn about Alice or the election 
either. It’s what they represent. He had ideals 
about them and they’ve gone to smash. He can’t 
believe in himself any more—that’s it—and he’s 
trying to let other people run him which is just 
what can’t be done in his case. Gik’s a self¬ 
starter, Senator—he can’t be cranked even if he 
wants to.” 

From the other’s expression it was not apparent 
whether he agreed or disagreed, or even whether 
he had heard. “I’ve suggested to the President 
that he be named for the vacancy on the Industrial 
Relations Commission. Of course he’s young and 
there will be objections, but I believe his study 
and experience qualify him. No job is too big for 
the man who can hold it.” 

“No,” said Hugh absently and it was as little 
apparent whether he agreed or disagreed or had 
heard. There was an undoubted lack of “con¬ 
tact” in the conversation as each of the two par¬ 
ticipants amiably pursued his own line of thought. 
“Alice wants me for lunch at her house to-dav,” 
the younger man continued, “I wonder—oh, well, 
we can’t let him give up, Senator—best fellow in 
the world, you know.” 

After Hugh had gone Senator Calhoun spent 


New Heaven 


163 


an hour outlining a speech on the Peace of Ver¬ 
sailles. He ended by destroying his notes and 
dismissing the whole subject with an impromptu 
and somewhat profane peroration against Henry 
Cabot Lodge. Anne could hear him walking up 
and down and chanting at top pitch. This was a 
usual process; his best speeches came from the 
heart and could not be outlined. 

Gilchrist was late. Anne had her hat on and 
was leaving for lunch when he came into the outer 
office. Neither of them knew how unpleasantly 
their two names had been linked in certain quar¬ 
ters. He was very gay and greeted her with a 
merry little twitch of the chin and lower lip which 
she recognized as familiar but not to him. Hugh 
did that! Now that she noticed it, his whole man¬ 
ner seemed oddly like Hugh's. It gave her 
an unpleasant impression. What was charming 
in Hugh was strangely weak in Gilchrist. 

“How's my good friend, Guibert, Miss McLan- 
ahan?” he asked. 

“He isn't well/' said Anne, “he—was in the 
hospital." 

“Hospital! Again?" 

“Yes. You see father—why, father struck 
him. I had a letter from Pierre. He says he 
called father a Christian Socialist and that father 
was very angry-" 



164 


The Shaft in the Sky 

Gilchrist was grinning. “Poor old Pierre. 
Isn't your dad a trifle doctrinaire ?” 

Anne looked blank. “They are friends again 
now. They're coming here next month to a na¬ 
tional meeting or something.” 

“National—or anti-national?” he smiled. 

She was blank again. “Oh, do you mean—radi¬ 
cal?” With the trends of industrial thought she 
was, it would seem, only dimly familiar. 

“Your father has the courage of his convic¬ 
tions,” he said crisply and apropos of nothing she 
could discover. She changed the subject- 

“You're practicing law, aren't you—now?” 

“Now and then, yes. But I'm in business too. 
Arthur Herrick and I are about to become 
sordidly rich—don’t tell your dad!” 

“It's—is it Mr. Arthur Herrick?” 

“Yes, do you know him?” 

“I—no, I don't know him. I'm off to lunch, 
Mr. Sturtevant. The Senator is inside.” 

It was like him not to have noticed her interest 
at mention of Arthur. 

Senator Calhoun was deep in a printed page. 
Seeing Gilchrist, he closed the book hastily and 
looked as sheepish as any schoolboy. Gilchrist 
spied the caption and smiled. It was not the 
Esch-Cummins Railroad Bill the Senator read 
nor the Plumb Plan for Industrial Reorganiza¬ 
tion, nor indeed any of the myriad pamphlets 




New Heaven 


165 


with which members of the Upper Branch keep 
themselves informed. It was Dumas’ “Three 
Musketeers” and was quite thumb worn. 

“Oh, come in, Gilchrist, my dear boy,” said 
the “little giant” self-consciously, “happened to 
stumble on a classic—never grows old—read it 
a dozen times. Delighted to see you, old fellow!” 

The younger man accepted a cigar and took his 
part comfortably in the pleasantries with which 
Senator Calhoun always preferred to approach 
any more serious topic. From the chair in which 
he sat he could see through a window the Wash¬ 
ington Monument glinting with noonday sun. 

“And what do I hear? You’re venturing in oil 
with young Herrick?” the Senator asked finally 
in a voice which sounded as if he were feeling his 
way on tiptoe. 

“Just what I came to talk about. You’re sur¬ 
prised, aren’t you?” 

“Yes.” It was perhaps the briefest reply the 
Senator had ever made. 

“You call it speculating, I suppose. Well—per¬ 
haps so. It is undoubtedly out of line with my, er, 
past activities. But, Senator, I’ve got to have 
money—and a lot of it. Er—none of the things I 
want to do are possible without a measure of eco¬ 
nomic independence, you know. It’s simple 
enough. Grandfather left me ten thousand dol¬ 
lars—I’m going to put it into something that will 


166 


The Shaft in the Sky 

either make or break me. It's only the men who 
take the big chances who make the big money. 
After all, ten thousand is comparatively so little 
it wouldn’t ruin me to lose it—and there’ll be 
many times that if I win-” 

The ash from his cigar fell on the carpet. To 
the elder man he sounded like a little boy begging 
for a tin whistle. It was shocking! 

“-Arthur Herrick has been awfully decent 

about it. He and I are organizing a company 
here and Talbot, the man who owns the land in 
Kansas, is to run things out there. He’s an ex¬ 
perienced oil man—I hear you know him ?” 

Senator Calhoun looked worried and excited. 
“Oh, Talbot’s honest enough,” he said, “made a 
good deal on his speculations, I understand.” He 
swayed nervously to and fro in his swivel chair, 
shocked beyond measure at the change in Sturte- 
vant, at the apology in his manner, the vague 
recklessness and irresponsibility back of his easy, 
plausible words. Of course, Hugh speculated too, 
he recalled, but that was different; with Hugh it 
was an adventure and something he expected to 
pay for, a substitute for the activity and excite¬ 
ment his imagination required. Hugh would 
never take this mad “make or break” attitude. 
In Gilchrist the whole thing suggested a sort of 
moral collapse, a surrender to exterior forces 
over which he no longer sought control. 




167 


New Heaven 

“It’s rather incongruous,” he said, trying to 
sound matter-of-fact, and avoiding Gilchrist’s 
eye, “I find it hard to associate you with a gamble. 
And it is a gamble—you say so yourself. A 
dubious business for a strong man. You—you’ve 
always made your own way, Gilchrist—haven’t 
waited for Chance to do it. I—there’s something 
spineless about it to me. Frankly, I can’t under¬ 
stand. It’s—it’s degrading!” 

His protest had become stronger than he in¬ 
tended. “Forgive me, my boy—I’m older than 
you,” he apologized. His voice was thin with 
eagerness now for he loved this young man. “I 
have other plans for you—if you’ll give up this 
venture. Yesterday I suggested to Tumulty that 
the President name you for the vacancy on the In¬ 
dustrial Relations Commission—a post for which 
your experience and abilities fit you splendidly. 
There’ll be a fight—you’re young and White 
seems to oppose it for some reason I haven’t made 
out. But Tumulty thinks that the President will 
look favorably on the proposal. In addition I can 
say that pressure will be brought to bear from— 
er, other quarters.” 

The Senator was walking up and down; Gil¬ 
christ came over to put an affectionate arm 
around him. He towered six inches above the 
“little giant.” 

“You and Hugh are the best friends a man 


168 


The Shaft in the Shy 

ever had,” he said. “But—I couldn’t accept. I’m 
tired of all that. It wasn’t the election—I’m just 

tired. There’s such a mess everywhere-” 

“All the more reason-” 

“-1 haven’t any solution. I’m not the man 

to hold office because I can’t even work things out 
for myself. I’ve got to think. The world’s not 
better since the war—its worse.” 

His face was gray. The hesitancy left his 
manner as he began to throw himself at thoughts 
long avoided. 

“Look at them overseas—France, Britain, 
Italy, Japan—squabbling for territory, maneuver¬ 
ing for square miles, playing the old game of 
rotten diplomacy while the League that was to 
keep the world in enlightened alliance sits like a 
girls’ sewing circle at Geneva! Look at Russia— 
God only knows what’s going on there or what’s 
coming out of it some day! And worse than all 
the rest—the United States of America! What 
a spectacle to inspire Europe! We came in time 
to win the war—sent our President to end war 

for all time—led the world-” 

Anne came in but he did not notice her. He 
was standing with his back to the great mantel¬ 
piece at the end of the room, standing straight 
with head lifted and jaw tight, all the fever and 
drama of disillusion in his face. 

“-and then—in the final battle—with vie- 







New Heaven 


169 


tory in sight—we lift an impassible barricade and 
call it Americanism. One hundred per cent Amer¬ 
icanism! God save the percentage! The world 
may go back to its old shackles—may starve or 
explode—we are Americans! Not an atom of 
our sovereignty may be risked for the civiliza¬ 
tion of which we boast ourselves a dominant part! 
I believe in patriotism, Senator; there are times 
when patriotism is big—but in this crisis it is the 
littlest, most damnable thing in the world! And 
the most dangerous. We have forgotten what 
the war was about—in a year we have swung 
from the exaltation of sacrifice to the infamy of 
selfishness. An unenlightened selfishness, too— 
stupid—suicidal—smearing our whole national 
existence with class and race hatred, intolerance, 
persecution, greediness—corrupting our manhood 
with an animal materialism that finds no higher 
summons in life than to eat and lust and die. And 
our women—no civilization is better than its 
women—ours aren’t women, they’re ugly children 
snatching at sensations, playing with sex, making 
dolls of the holinesses of life, terrified at whatever 
is fundamental or fine, scornful of all that’s mod¬ 
est or reverent or sweet, taking everything, giv¬ 
ing nothing-” 

A low exclamation from Anne halted him. He 
turned to her with startled eyes as if he had been 




170 


The Shaft in the Sky 

shaken from sleep. “It’s beyond me/’ he said, 
shamefacedly, his enthusiasm suddenly gone. 

No one spoke. Anne was looking at Senator 
Calhoun, demanding something of him without 
knowing what. He stared at the window, at the 
Monument far beyond it, and when he finally 
spoke it was as though he repeated something to 
which he was listening- 

“It’s beyond me—too. I only know that I must 
believe—that I can never look from this window 
at that shaft to the Father of his Country with¬ 
out replenished faith in the Destiny that drove 
him. I must still believe in America and Amer¬ 
ica’s mission. We have come to Armageddon; 
the final battle of good and evil is begun. It is in 
America it must be fought—here God has mar¬ 
shalled the two forces and is loosing them to ulti¬ 
mate conflict. You—you are with us—you are 
on the Lord’s side. You will pass this brief 
Gethsemane and hear again that something with¬ 
in you forever crying ‘hope’—and that sterner 
something that cries ‘fight.’ The Gilchrist Stur- 
tevant who was foremost in faith and courage 
and combat won’t fail us now because these days 
are dark.” He approached the younger man 
almost shyly and placed a hand on his arm. “I 
want you to say you’ll accept this appointment, 
Gilchrist.” 

Gilchrist’s face was heavy. “I’m sorry, Sena- 




New Heaven 


171 


tor, awfully sorry—but I can’t do it.” He shook 
the other’s hand and looked about blindly for his 
hat. “Gad! I envy you your Armageddon!” he 
said. 

After he had gone the Senator sat a long time, 
drumming the arm of his chair and staring out 
of the window. Across the desk Anne was look¬ 
ing like anything but a private secretary. 

“He left his gloves,” she said, pointing at a pair 
on the desk. 

The other’s eyes were on the distant shaft. 

“Well, we’ll get him appointed anyhow—eh, 
Senator!” he queried. 

His private secretary came over quite suddenly 
and kissed him. 

“Yes, Senator,” she said. 


Chapter Fourteen 


T /[JGH waited in the Deering library and 
* wondered why he had never fallen in love 
with Alice Deering. The fire threw heroic lights 
on an old portrait of her paternal grandmother 
in girlhood. He had always liked that portrait; 
it was so like and unlike Alice. The stately Vic¬ 
torian carriage and reserve were as unlike her as 
the softly resolute chin, the humorous restless 
mouth and incongruously classic brow, were like 
her. A Nineteenth Century aristocrat—Alice’s 
grandmother, he thought! Type of a day when 
women won by what they held in reserve—when 
it was not fashionable to carry one’s legs, shoul¬ 
ders and immortal souls abroad without decent 
clothing! They had a value then—women’s legs 
and souls! Sort of things that grow best under 
cover! 

The Buccaneer’s grandmother! He would 
have loved her! His fancy gave her great quali¬ 
ties of mind and heart. “A creature breathing 
thoughtful breath, a traveller between life and 
death!” She reminded him vaguely of several 
people—of Alice, of his own mother, of Anne Me- 


New Heaven 


173 


Lanahan! Dreaming- over the portrait, his mild 
antagonism to Twentieth Century womanhood 
lost some of its good humor and became irritable; 
into the blood of the philosopher there crept for 
a moment the fever of a propagandist. Realism! 
Frankness! Stella Chambers stuff! No more real¬ 
ism in modern ugliness than in Victorian pretti¬ 
ness, he swore! The truth is somewhere between 
—they've leaned so far out of heaven for it 
they're nearer hell than earth! Ugliness for ugli¬ 
ness' sake! He remembered Arthur saying that! 
Damned decadent, Arthur—but right'idea some¬ 
times ! 

Upstairs were murmurs of masculine conver¬ 
sation. Occasionally John Hampton’s voice was 
audible. Hugh caught an impatient “impossible!" 
from him and smiled. Robert Deering was “con¬ 
sulting" his lawyer! 

Through the library window he saw a car roll 
up to the Deering curb. In a few moments the 
maid ushered Captain Granville into the room. 
Hugh was sorry; he hated “at homes." 

“Lot of snow this winter—for Washington," 
he volunteered. Englishmen embarrassed him. 

“Yes," said Granville, “its jolly outside. We're 
driving." 

We! What the devil! Had Alice forgotten? 

But at this moment, Mrs. Deering came in, 
hatted and gloved. “ 'Lo, Hugh," she said, hand- 


174 


The Shaft in the Shy 

ing Granville her cloak, “don’t ask me where 
Alice is—I never know. The infant’s too dis¬ 
agreeable for words. She hasn’t her mother’s 
temperament, has she Granny, dear?” 

“No, but she has her mother’s complexion,” 
said Granville gallantly, helping with the cloak. 

“Good-bye,” said Hugh, grinning now that he 
knew whose caller the captain was. 

When they had gone he took a deep chair and 
apostrophized the portrait. “O tempora! O 
mores! O hell! You mustn’t mind your daughter- 
in-law, madam!” 

A hand on his shoulder pressed him back as 
he tried to get up. “Stay there, mon enfant ” said 
Alice. “Worshipping again? Isn’t there trouble 
enough with the living that you must make me 
jealous of a departed grandmother?” 

“You’re late,” he reproached. She was fresh 
from out of doors and kept her red-lined coat on. 
Her presence filled the room, vital as snow. She 
did not trouble to smile. 

“Stella kept me. She wants to quit.” 

“Quit what?” 

“The courses at George Washington.” 

“Will you?” 

“Stella will—yes.” 

“But you’ll stick. Good! I thought so. Take 
your coat off?” 


New Heaven 


175 


“Oh no—we’re off!” 

“Who?” 

“You and I, stupid—for a walk. I can’t sit 
here with grandmother. She cramps my style.” 

He settled in his chair, groaning, “Oh, but the 
fire—I say, Buccaneer, I—its—I haven’t my rub¬ 
bers—its cheerful here!” 

She was determined and would not hear no. 
“The snow is glorious, Hugh. I’ll recite you Ar¬ 
thur’s latest called ‘My Lady of Snow.’ He sent 
it to me but I’m not the lady. The nose, mouth, 
complexion are all wrong. She has ‘pale, laugh¬ 
ing lips’—disgusting, isn’t it?” 

“He is, yes,” Hugh grumbled, getting into his 
coat. 

“Nice boy!” He presumed she meant Arthur, 
but she didn’t. 

From upstairs John Hampton’s voice came to 
them in sudden emphasis—“all right, put West¬ 
ern Leasing’s last issue on the New York list if 
you want to give something away; but in the name 
of sanity don’t insist on this Mars business.” 

“Mars?” Hugh whispered blankly. 

Alice’s smile was an odd compound of tender¬ 
ness and defiance. “Dad has a plan,” she said, 
“its absurd—but he’s big—big!” 

Outside they made for Massachusetts Avenue 
and then the park. At Sheridan Circle, George 
White’s machine swept by them with Mr. White 




176 


The Shaft in the Sky 

and Senator Calhoun gesticulating at each other 
in the tonneau. Up Massachusetts Hill intervals 
of open country, nestled in white, reminded Hugh 
of Princeton vistas and undergraduate tramps. 
He loved it. She was long-legged and walked 
him stride for stride. When they reached the 
park they left the path to plow across country 
through clinging wetness and piney underbrush, 
heavy with snow. When the creek interfered 
they threaded along the bank until there was a 
place to cross, stepping from rock to rock. She 
stopped once on a boulder in midstream and they 
stood watching the shivering, frivolous little 
ripples of water against the stone. 

“I adore this!” she said as if it were a surpris¬ 
ing thing. He felt the strangeness of her and 
marvelled. Then he succumbed to it and felt 
strange himself, felt as if there were three people 
present instead of two—three people saying 
countless things to one another without speaking. 
There was a positive impulsion against speech. 
He did not think of Alice as altered in any fash¬ 
ion ; he felt she had always been like this and that 
no one had known, not even herself. 

Shuffling along a bridle path they kicked at 
hoof prints in the snow. A furry, brown creature 
flashed across in front of them and burrowed 
into a pile of dead brush. Hugh poked for it with 
a stick, calling it names. He wondered at his own 



177 


New Heaven 

voice; it sounded queer. He was lost in a world 
of white. He must talk more! 

“Gik’s place in the Adirondaks is like this-” 

he began, and halted, remembering for the first 
time what she had told him at Saint Mark’s 
months ago. 

“Yes,” she said, “what about Gilchrist?” She 
cleared her throat. 

So he chose Gilchrist as a topic. He talked of 
his friend to his friend’s enemy—without know¬ 
ing how much of an enemy she had been or how 
little one she was to-day. He told her his own 
theory about the other’s unnatural absorption 
in dinners and dances, about his lack of inter¬ 
est in Senator Calhoun’s political efforts for him, 
about the speculation in oil with Arthur. He 
even took Alice to France, comparing the Gil¬ 
christ of those days with the one of this. 

He did not see how white her face went nor 
the passionate, drawn, set of her lips nor the 
fierce tenderness in her eyes. She walked a little 
behind him and felt as bitter and wronged as 
though in some manner she were being denied a 
thing rightfully and supremely desired. 

She had gone a long way since summer. The 
very energies with which she had set about the 
vindication of her hurt pride had brought her 
close to a thing she had never seen before—her 



178 


The Shaft in the Sky 

own soul. The proximity was harsh for a time 
because she did not desire it. She had no remorse 
for the things she had done, but grief she did 
have, a grief that did not deaden but demanded. 
The soul she had found summoned her to she 
knew not what. She had seen a beaten man and 
found in his eyes—herself. There was no thought 
of who had beaten him. 

“It's almost dark,” she said, “we’d best turn 
back.” 

She led the way until they came to the Con¬ 
necticut Avenue bridge. Both of them had lapsed 
again into the same enthralled silence. Hugh 
had never known her like this; he felt half in 
love with her and altogether in love with the oc¬ 
casion. Below them as they crossed the bridge 
were the now sombre valleys of the park; in front, 
the towering Dresden and the myriad lights of 
Washington. Over both of them crept a sort of 
exultant buoyancy. They linked arms, she 
hummed a song and he whistled low accompani¬ 
ment in step. At the Nineteenth Street hill boys 
were sledding in the twilight. Later there would 
be fashion folk with sleds there, for snow is an 
event in the capital. 

‘Til take you sledding,” he volunteered, feeling 
like a little boy himself. 

“All right. Thursday night—if it lasts.” 


New Heaven 


179 


“Not Thursday—I-” 

“Oh! Who is she? You’ve fallen for a deb 
already?” 

“It’s Anne McLanahan. To the movies.” 

“Strange pastures,” she said carelessly, “the 
coal miner’s daughter?” 

“Why not? I like her.” He was offended. 

“Only my jealousy, darling,” she murmured, 
hugging his arm. “You have a fancy about every 
one—what is it about her?” 

He thought. “She—well, she’s so refreshingly 
real. It’s because she hasn’t any dramatic sense 
—or any literary instinct. Or excess imagina¬ 
tion. She can’t be anything but herself.” 

“Meaning-?” 

“You know. Literary people are always liv¬ 
ing up to something they’ve read or written. 
And the dramatic ones are too busy acting parts 
they conceive for themselves.” 

“And the ones with imagination-?” 

“They’re always in the grip of it—some fancy 
or other—never the same twice.” 

“Go in peace! You reek with imagination 
yourself!” 

They had reached the block where she lived. 

“Its been a glorious walk,” she said, exultantly. 
“Come on! Fast!” She seized his hand and ran 
like mad, pulling him along. “Faster—faster* 
boy!” 





180 


The Shaft in the Sky 

At the Deering doorway, breathing excitedly, 
her eyes bright and hard, she took his face be¬ 
tween her hands, hugged his cheeks, and was 
gone. 


L 


Chapter Fifteen 

A 70 RTH Nine Nine nine.” 

-*■ * Hugh sat on the edge of the bed in his 
room at the club and waited while the club opera¬ 
tor repeated the number. An elderly gentleman 
in the next room whom rheumatism had made ir¬ 
ritable and statistical took pains to keep a record 
of the number of times Hugh called “North 999” 
in a month. If the young “clubman” had known 
how much of his club life was under surveillance 
he might have been embarrassed. Not knowing 
it, however, he was sociable with his telephone 
and depended on it. Of course, he did not take 
the instrument as seriously as did Senator Cal¬ 
houn, who would doff his hat or put on his coat if 
talking to a lady. In fact Hugh conducted some 
of his most formal and gallant conversations in 
a state of extreme negligee. 

It was true that most of his conversations were 
with North 999. To sit in his room and, with 
the performance of a simple mechanical act, have 
Cecilia’s voice and Cecilia’s ear was one of life’s 
most notable conveniences. Especially in the 
morning; the voice was very lively then and the 

181 


182 


The Shaft in the Sky 

ear comparatively attentive. There was an ear¬ 
ring on the ear—he always remembered it when 
he talked. Indeed he never had Cecilia on the 
telephone without having in mind how her hair 
was probably done and what her expression (or 
lack of it) might be at each particular conversa¬ 
tional development. And whether her eyes were 
wide open or nearly shut! He was about to decide 
that he was in love with Cecilia. At the same 
time he was about to conclude that after all there 
was nothing very exciting about love and that it 
required lots of effort. 

“North nine nine nine? Oh, hello, Mrs. Lee 
—may I talk to Cecilia ?” 

“Not up yet, Hugh,” said Mrs. Lee who liked 
him and felt helpless with him and hoped Cecilia 
would not fall in love with him, “it was four 
o’clock when she came in this morning. But she 
has a luncheon at one-thirty—I’ll wake her in half 
an hour.” 

He was obstinate. “Now, Mrs. Lee, really— 
every self-respecting girl should be up by twelve, 
shouldn’t she? I’ve something important, hon¬ 
estly—won’t you call her ?” 

“Fakir!” she laughed, “it’s only nonsense 
you’ll talk. I—well, wait a moment and I’ll see.” 

He whistled into the phone until a pitiful voice 
volunteered a weak “hel-lo” and then repeated 
brightly “Oh hello, Hugh Cothran.” 


New Heaven 


183 


“Don’t speak to me," he scolded, “I was up 
with the sun." 

“So was I, Hugh—just before I went to bed. 
There were milk wagons too." 

“Either you’re Rip Van Winkle or you’re a 
flapper! Jove, you never see me except at parties 
—must be starved, Cess!" 

“Yes—oh no—I haven’t had breakfast." He 
wondered if she were facetious or only sleepy. 

“Eat nothing until you see me—I’ll come up 
for lunch in person." 

“What are you talking about—it sounds can¬ 
nibal! Well, you can’t come because I’m lunch¬ 
ing at the Shoreham. Ruth Durand’s here from 
college." 

“To-morrow night, then?" 

“To-morrow night? I’m going to a theatre 
party. The next night, you—but I forgot— 
Colonel Dorsey’s dinner to Laura Hotchkiss is 
then. And after that—why, Hugh, I haven’t an 
evening free for ever so long. What did you 
want me to do?" 

He was irritated. “Must we always do some¬ 
thing ? I wanted you to stay at home and hear me 
talk. Entertain you single-handed." 

“Oh!" Really Hugh shouldn’t expect a 
debutante to give a whole evening to one person 
without a theater or supper or even a moving pic¬ 
ture to help! “Well, you’d better come sledding 


184 


The Shaft in the Sky 

with Blaine Todd and me to-night. It’s wonder¬ 
ful on the Nineteenth Street hill. Everybody's 
coming!” 

It annoyed him that “everybody’s coming” at¬ 
tracted her and that she should offer it as an in¬ 
ducement to him. He hated what he called the 
“community existence.” 

“Can’t,” he said, “I’m going out with a school 
marm.” 

“School marm? Hugh—who is this woman?” 

“A coal miner’s daughter. Working girl. 
Don’t worry—heaven protects them!” 

“You mean—demitasses! Oh, I know—its 
Senator Calhoun’s new secretary, isn’t it? Now, 
that’s quite exciting. I know, Hugh—bring her 
along sledding—I like funny people!” 

“But she isn’t funny.” 

“Silly, you know what I mean. Will you? I’ll 
come for you in the electric—there’ll be lots of 
sleds. I want to see her. Bet my hat you’re fall¬ 
ing for her.” 

He was mollified. After all Cess was rather 
an angel! 

“Well, I’ll ask her,” he agreed. “Is Alice com¬ 
ing?” 

“No—o! Isn’t she queer? Hasn’t been to a 
single party since my debut. Wonder if she’s en¬ 
gaged or something? Not to Arthur, I know— 
he told me all about it. But, Hugh, what has hap- 


New Heaven 


185 


pened to Gilchrist Sturtevant? He’s so gay. I 
see him at all the dances and’he acts flippant and 
funny, sort of. It doesn’t suit him a bit. Dances 
with me a lot and talks exactly like you. Only it 
seems foolish from him—and you are never fool¬ 
ish, are you?” 

“Oh no!” 

“Oh—no?” 

“-What number did you call, please?” broke 

in a’voice that was not Cecilia’s. 

Hugh was quickly embarrassed. “Why—er— 

I-” 

“He has his number, central—if you’ll stay 
off the wire, please*” said Cecilia sharply, “—I 
hear he’s gambling and sort of dissipating—lots 
of the debs are excited about him—there’s some¬ 
thing so distinguished and sort of tragic—he’s 
very graceful, too. I like tall men.” 

Hugh’s voice was indistinct as if he were some 
distance from the telephone- 

“That fool Arthur*Herrick roped him into an 
oil deal and the whole thing’s about to go 
smash—” the voice came nearer—“well, be a good 
little deb, Cess—run along and eat your curds 
and whey—be sure to say 'prunes and prisms’— 
it’ll make your mouth pretty. I’ll let you know 
whether we can come to-night.” 

“Good-bye,” she said, hurt at something in his 
tone. 





186 


The Shaft in the Sky 

Hugh spent three hours at his typewriter click¬ 
ing off an article on the “Inhumanity of Politics 
to its High Priests.” He spent another hour 
thinking of a letter received that morning offer¬ 
ing him the editorship of a small Montana news¬ 
paper. Once he stopped to telephone Anne Mc- 
Lanahan at Senator Calhoun’s office and tell her 
about the sledding party. It was arranged that 
she should have dinner with him down town in¬ 
stead of going out to the little boarding house 
where she lived. 

Dinner with Anne was an awkward affair at 
first. After the large casualness of Senator Cal¬ 
houn’s office the intimacy of a quiet table in a tea- 
shop rather appalled him. Anne looked eager but 
tired. This was a great occasion for her. Never 
had she dined out with anyone like this, with 
music and flowers and a marvellously polite wait¬ 
ress who called Mr. Cothran by name and thought 
of everything. Conversation lagged, however; 
she had no notion of the obligation to constant 
dialogue which all but the most ultra stratas of 
society impose. She had been accustomed to talk¬ 
ing only when she wanted to and to-night, because 
she was tired and there was so much to see and 
feel, she talked hardly at all. Hugh’s embarrass¬ 
ment made him formal; the lapses of conversation 
seemed to him at times dull and again more inti¬ 
mate than he felt was appropriate. He tried hard 


187 


New Heaven 

but Anne sat like some great-eyed goddess over 
whom the waves of mortal speech passed without 
impress. For a little while he tried harder, then 
he became amused and stopped with a pleasant 
sense of being no longer accountable. He had no 
sooner become enamoured of the easy silence, 
however, than the goddess deigned speech. 
What did Hugh do all day ? Who was the middle- 
aged gentleman to whom he had just spoken? 
What was Hugh's middle name? Did he have 
any sisters ? Did he believe in soviets ? Who was 
Cecilia? What color were her eyes? *Hair? 
Was she tall? Why did Mr. Cothran disapprove 
of Mr. Sturtevant going into business? Did he 
think Senator Calhoun a great man? Who was 
Miss Deering? 

Later on they saw “Broken Blossoms" at the 
Rialto. Anne was lost in the picture; as closely 
as did the orchestra she followed every theme 
With eyes and lips. When the prize fighter beat 
his fragile little daughter, Anne writhed under 
the blows; when the Chinese boy with all the dig¬ 
nity of the Orient in his face made worshipful 
love, she loved him in return; and when he 
brought the body of the dead girl back to his shop 
and performed his simple, extravagant rites, his 
desolation was Anne's too. Hugh saw the tears 
she tried to conceal. Then it was all over; a 


188 


The Shaft in the Sky 

cheap, typical comedy was flashed on and the or¬ 
chestra settled in relief back into jazz. 

“If you don’t mind, I think we’d better go 
now,” she said and Hugh, sentimental as a Teu¬ 
ton, squeezed her arm. He felt suddenly that 
they had between them now a tremendous mutual 
experience. But outside he made fun of the pic¬ 
ture and was ashamed of his softness and glad 
they were about to meet Cecilia. 

They waited half an hour at the Lafayette be¬ 
fore Blaine and Cecilia, who had been at a late 
dinner, called for them in Cecilia’s electric. It 
was true; Cecilia did like ‘Tunny” people and she 
welcomed Anne excitedly, ordering her to sit with 
her in the back seat. Anne was just as excited 
and if Cecilia stared and asked all sorts of ques¬ 
tions, Anne stared as much and answered each 
question carefully. Her eyes were unnaturally 
bright; the pink was burning through the olive in 
her cheeks but she was too excited to know how 
tired she was. She thought Cecilia a wonderful 
creature in her black furs, and marvelled at her 
earrings when the stones in them caught the re¬ 
flection of passing street lamps. When Hugh 
leaned back to whisper at Cecilia, Anne thought 
them prince and princess—surely they were in 
love! How gay and at home he was with her! 
She had never seen him like this! He seemed so 
happy and dominating. She was not jealous but 


189 


New Heaven 

she felt very little and shabby. Yet when Hugh 
turned to Anne, Cecilia, catching a silhouette of 
the two faces against the snow beyond the win¬ 
dow, was sure that he liked the strange girl more 
than was quite pleasing. There was a deference 
in his manner and a vague sort of tenderness. 

They stopped at Blaine’s for the sled. Blaine 
tied it to the rear of the electric. He was mak¬ 
ing himself very pleasant to Anne and wonder¬ 
ing what new eccentricity of Hugh’s she repre¬ 
sented. 

It was after eleven when they reached the hill. 
Already there were nearly a dozen sledding par¬ 
ties—most of them in evening dress. Ruth Du¬ 
rand and Henry were there with Arthur Her¬ 
rick. A little earlier Arthur had spoken bitterly 
of the folly of sledding at such an hour and in 
dinner-coats. Self-conscious clap-trap, he called 
it! Since the afternoon when he had met the 
“one woman” in the snow his moodiness and ir¬ 
ritability had grown daily; for him a thing denied 
was a thing madly and increasingly desired. 
Now that he had come to the hill, though, he was 
thinking it rather an artistic novelty—this night 
sledding. He even braced enough to call the 
snow path down the hill a “ribbon of moonlight.” 
Ruth was amused at this and Henry disgusted. 

The big Durand coaster was just beginning the 


190 The Shaft in the Shy 

long slide as Cecilia’s party arrived; they did not 
see Anne. 

She was in fairyland! It was such perfect fun! 
With Hugh steering and Cecilia, Blaine and her¬ 
self piled on at random she felt the lamps and 
snow and houses flash by as they sped downward 
on the first trip. “Oh—h!” said Cecilia. At the 
bottom of the hill Hugh swerved them sharply 
to the left, spilling his passengers in a heap. 
Then the passengers rolled the driver in the snow, 
crammed it down his collar and into his eyes until 
he apologized and made promises. Trudging 
back up the hill they shouted at other parties 
darting by on the downward trip; everyone 
seemed to know everyone else. Stella went by 
with Captain Granville behind enclosing her in 
his arms to reach the steering stick. Then they 
were off again themselves with Blaine at the stick 
and Hugh hanging on precariously until half way 
down Cecilia pushed him off and he went hurtling 
into a snow bank, swearing vengeance. Anne 
wondered about Cecilia’s earrings. “Why don’t 
you take them off?” she suggested and Cecilia 
shouted with laughter. 

The time flew faster than the sleds. Unac¬ 
countably soon it was four o’clock in the morning 
and all the other parties except the Durand’s had 
gone. The Durand sled was huge; Henry said 
they must all take the last trip on it. It was 


New Heaven 


191 


frightful melee when all were aboard. Arthur 
steered. They shouted and screamed as the great 
snow craft got slowly under way, then gathered 
such speed that Anne felt she might not be able 
to breathe in a moment. “Stick to the ribbon, 
Arthur,” Henry shouted. “Oh—h,” Ruth crooned 
in an hysteria of speed, “ribbon of moonlight, 
Arthur!” As the poet looked back to grimace at 
them and shout something at Cecilia a milk wagon 
turned ponderously into the path ahead at S 
Street. He saw it the next moment and wrenched 
sharply at the steering sticks; the big sled tilted 
slightly and sped straight for a lamp post across 
the street. Ruth, Cecilia and Henry on the out¬ 
side jumped clear just in time. Hugh was be¬ 
hind Arthur and pushed him violently sidewise so 
that, when the sled struck, Arthur went hurtling 
into a snow’bank and Hugh took the post squarely 
with his right shoulder. Blaine, in rear of Hugh, 
was cushioned away by Hugh's back, but Anne, 
kneeling behind, shot clear above the others; her 
body whipped the post like a flail and fell against 
Hugh's leg. 

He heard her moan—then no sound, only the 
rigid body and white face and the trouble in her 
eyes told she was hurt. His shoulder was stab¬ 
bing with pain. 

Dead silence. Then the driver of the milk 
wagon called out cheerfully. “Anybody hurt?” 


192 


The Shaft in the Sky 

“Yes,” said Hugh, wondering at his own voice, 
“drive over as close as you can.” No one else 
spoke. He leaned over Anne. “Is it bad?” he 
asked. “Not very much,” she said, smiling a 
little and wanting to apologize. The next mo¬ 
ment, she fainted. Arthur and Blaine had come 
up but Hugh waved them aside and lifted the girl 
from the sled. Very slowly he climbed with her 
to the wagon beside the driver. It was not until 
then that Arthur saw her face. It was the girl he 
had met on the Mall! “My God!” he said loudly, 
and repeated it softly. Hugh was directing the 
driver to the Emergency Hospital and saying 
rather incoherent things. Only Blaine seemed to 
keep his head; he ordered Arthur into the wagon 
with Hugh and said the rest should follow in 
Henry’s car. In Hugh’s place he would have* 
brought the car down the hill to carry Anne, but 
it was too late now. 

The wagon drove off while Blaine and the rest 
trudged up the hill. By the time they reached 
the top Cecilia had recovered speech enough to 
clutch Blaine’s arm and ask how badly he thought 
Anne was hurt. Her lips were ashy and her jaw 
quavered as she spoke. She began to talk wildly 
—she couldn’t bear it—she wouldn’t go to the 
hospital—they must let her go home—it was too 
terrible—she was ill—such a darling little girl— 
she simply couldn't go to the hospital! Blaine 



193 


New Heaven 

was angry and told her to go on home in her elec¬ 
tric. Then she couldn’t find the key—didn’t feel 
able to drive! He jumped into her car, tried the 
control and found it unlocked, helped her in 
roughly and joined Henry and Ruth in the Chand¬ 
ler. He was sorry a moment later when he re¬ 
membered how she was shaking with cold and 
horror. He looked back to see that she had 
started. 

Meanwhile the milk wagon was a thousand 
years from Nineteenth Street to the hospital. 
Once during the trip Hugh knew, from the tight¬ 
ening of Anne’s body in his arms, that she had 
regained consciousness. “Drive more carefully,” 
he said to the man. He held her ever so tenderly; 
it was many days later that she remembered 
vaguely how he had murmured something about 
“broken blossoms” and sworn terribly at the 
driver when the horse slipped. Arthur was 
crowded in with the milk cases behind. 

Ten minutes after their arrival at the hospital 
the businesslike young doctor came into the ante¬ 
room where they were waiting. 

“Very bad, I’m afraid,” he said, frowning, and 
disappeared again. 

“What stupidity!” said Ruth, “why can’t he 
tell us about it!” 

Someone came in from the entrance hall and 
they all turned nervously to see. It was Cecilia. 


194 


The Shaft in the Sky 

She might have been a ghost; her face was so 
gaunt and white. One of the earrings was gone. 
Something in her eyes made Ruth almost afraid. 
“I decided to come,” she said briefly. “Have 
you—heard?” Ruth shook her head, fascinated 
at the hard, impenetrable look of the girl. 

The doctor came out again. What a creature 
he was with his self-conscious professionalism! 

“The spine is twisted,” he said, “Tve given 
her morphine and she’s sleeping.” 

Hugh summoned his courage. “Doctor—will 
she-” he could go no further. 

“Won’t know for weeks—she may never walk 
again,” said the other in a tone he might have 
used in refusing a second helping of potatoes. 
“She won’t sleep long—the pulse was too weak 
for much of the morphia. As the night nurse is ill 
it would be better if one of you stayed with her.” 

Arthur was sobbing. “I’ll stay,” said Ruth. 
Hugh nodded and said he would wait outside a 
while. The others prepared to leave. 

Cecilia was clutching Ruth’s arm. “I’m go¬ 
ing to stay, Ruth,” she said, “go on home—you’re 
leaving for Poughkeepsie in the morning.” She 
looked at the others defiantly as though they were 
perfect strangers. For a moment the spiritual 
tragedy of Cecilia seemed to outweigh the phys¬ 
ical tragedy of Anne. Ruth looked at Hugh. 
“Better let her stay,” he said dully. 



195 


New Heaven 

Arthur decided to remain with Hugh, and was 
so obdurate and emotional about it that Hugh 
in a quick flood of anger wanted to throw him 
out. Finally he tolerated him because it was too 
much trouble not to. 

Cecilia went in with the doctor. For half an 
hour Hugh and Arthur paced the sidewalk out¬ 
side, smoking in silence. Then Arthur asked the 
question he had forgotten until now to ask. 

“Who is she, Hugh?” 

“Anne McLanahan.” 

He stopped still. “Anne McLanahan!” he ex¬ 
claimed loudly, “my God! You don't mean—the 
girl Sturtevant brought here from Bloody Hol¬ 
low?” 

“Yes, why?” 

“Oh my God, Hugh—don't tell me that—I 
can't believe that about her!” 

Hugh faced him, amazed. Then gradually 
he began to comprehend what Arthur meant and 
the color surged back into his haggard cheeks. 
The self-control that had seemed a very part of 
him since the accident, snapped. He seized the 
poet's collar and began to shake. The more he 
shook the more frenzied he became- 

“You damn fool!” he sobbed, “you rotten- 
minded damn fool—if you ever say—think—any¬ 
thing about that girl—I'll—Til-” he paled 

suddenly, released his grip, and clutched at his 




196 The Shaft in the Sky 

own shoulder. Then he fainted and fell down in 
the snow against the stone coping of the hospital 
yard. 

A broken collar bone had spared Arthur 
further indignities. 


Chapter Sixteen 


r /'0 be the Deering family lawyer was to be 
more than a mere member of the bar. The 
post required alternately a diplomat, a conspira¬ 
tor, a politician, a headsman. John Hampton had 
held it for fifteen years and was still learning. 

For one thing there were the philanthropies of 
Robert Deering and his proneness to scientific 
excess. The large-natured gentleman was for¬ 
ever at point of launching some immense imagina¬ 
tive venture destined to revolutionize commerce, 
art, mechanics, or astronomy, and John Hamp¬ 
ton's most recent task had been to dissuade him 
from investing upwards of a million dollars in 
the assembly of vast electric forces for an at¬ 
tempted communication with the planet Mars. 
When not at odds with his client on some such 
proposition as this, the lawyer was busy discour¬ 
aging him from prodigious philanthropies of one 
sort or another by which he might divest himself 
of the greater part of the fortune amassed by 
his father. Much of the lawyer's success at these 
offices came from the fact that he had enough 

imagination himself to sympathize with most of 

197 


198 


The Shaft in the Sky 

the schemes and to admire devoutly the daring, 
dimensions and generosity of the mind that con¬ 
ceived them. 

But John Hampton was Mrs. Deering’s lawyer 
too, and in that role he was called upon to do al¬ 
most everything he had resolved not to do when 
he began to practice twenty years earlier. In the 
Campaigner’s service he was drawn to strange 
pastures. For instance, there were certain deli¬ 
cate arrangements with the gentlemen of the 
“ Tattler”, fashion’s yellow journal and social 
refuse heap. Then there were “inquiries” to be 
made into the circumstances and activities of 
some of Mrs. Deering’s “very dear friends”; 
there were ententes cordiales to be established 
for her in socially dominant quarters; members 
of the corps diplomatique (who, with a single 
exception, outranked all others in the social hier¬ 
archy) must be reached by fair or foul means and 
drawn into the Deering entourage; there were 
also certain tid-bits of gossip to be inspired and 
passed to the customary retailers. And always 
there was his own taste and conscience to be 
suppressed. 

Of course, he had also, as executor of the will 
of the first Mr. Deering, the task of watching the 
sundry investments, continuing in effect various 
stipulations of the will, accounting for expendi¬ 
tures and maintaining income without depleting 


199 


New Heaven 

the principal of the estate. It was his office on 
Alice's twenty-first birthday to execute the trans¬ 
fer to her of properties and securities repre¬ 
senting several millions of dollars, as provided in 
the will. 

In time he would be Alice's lawyer too—what¬ 
ever that might involve. He thought of her as 
still a child and was more amused than impressed 
at the lively interest she was showing just now 
in her own affairs. He was astonished, though, 
when she came to him one day with a request that 
he look into an oil project known as the Talbot 
Company, suggesting that Arthur Herrick, as a 
local official, might have the necessary informa¬ 
tion. He talked to her, as he would have talked 
to her father, of the instability of oil stocks, and 
though he later made the inquiries she desired he 
had not spoken of it to her, believing that her in¬ 
terest was casual and that she had forgotten the 
whole thing. 

One evening when he had dined at the Deer- 
ing's and had said good-night after two hours 
over cigars and a “housing at cost" proposition 
with Robert Deering, he found Alice in evening 
dress in the library below. She was bound for 
a dance. “The first in two months and the Judge 
must come with her as far as Raushers!" He 
thought he had never seen her so radiantly hand¬ 
some. Yes, the daughter of the house was grow- 


200 


The Shaft in the Sky 

ing up; there was a subtle sort of maturity about 
her of late! Within the year she had become 
a woman—and rather a magnificent one at that! 
How tall and graceful she was in that black dress! 
And what a face! All the artist left in the law¬ 
yer acknowledged the chiseled features, the 
smooth classic brow, the thoroughbred arch of 
the nose, the full, humorous mouth and the firm 
“fighting” chin. 

She was silent for a time as the car rolled down 
New Hampshire Avenue. When she spoke it was 
casually, as if conversation must be made. 

“Oh, did you look up the Talbot Company, 
Judge?” 

He assumed his professional manner, mantling 
his eyebrows and letting his hand fall ponder¬ 
ously on his knee. 

“I did,” he said firmly. “The company is, as 
I guessed, one of those overnight, mushroom 
growths. I haven't been told why you are in¬ 
terested, my dear, but its—no good. They raised 
fifty thousand on a stock issue and have spent sub¬ 
stantially all of it in boring. Found a little oil, 
I believe, one or two fifteen-barrel wells—hardly 
enough to pay the expense of marketing.” 

She was powdering her nose. “Do the owners 
still believe in it?” 

He was annoyed that the thing must even be 
discussed. “I suppose they do. I saw young Her- 


201 


New Heaven 

rick and his friend Sturtevant yesterday—crow¬ 
ing over their fifteen-barrel gushers. Pair of 
young fools!” He was beginning to think she 
might have bought some of the stock. 

“So—they would believe they were selling a, 
er, valuable thing if some one bought them out, 
I suppose!” 

“If some one bought them out!” the lawyer 
snorted, “they couldn’t give it away. It makes 
no difference how valuable they think it is!” 

“Gilchrist is so sentimentally honorable-” 

she began, then changed the subject. “By the 
way, did Mr. Cox buy that stock for me you and 
dad discussed all through dinner the other night ? 
What was the name?” 

“Western Leasing. Yes—transferred in your 
name last Saturday. Now that is a thing—they’re 
prepared to stake thirty thousand acres of oil 
land in Wyoming as soon as the President signs 
the Leasing Act—no charges except royalties if 
oil is found. Your father owns a controlling in¬ 
terest.” 

“What did I pay for my stock?” 

“A hundred and five thousand with commis¬ 
sions to Cox. That’s the thing you signed for 
last week. You have a thousand shares.” 

“Oh, yes, I see,” she said absently and John 
Hampton wished he knew just what it was she 
did see. But the car had stopped at Raushers 



202 


The Shaft in the Sky 

and she was gone before he could cross-question. 
Also, excellent lawyer that he was, he understood 
that his new client would not be an easy one for 
cross-questioning. 

Inside, Blaine Todd was waiting on the red 
plush, wondering why Alice Deering had sought 
him out as escort for to-night. But he was glad 
enough to be seen with her at a dance; it looked 
well along the receiving line and identified him 
indirectly with the British Embassy set. This in 
spite of the fact that he was always vaguely afraid 
of her because he suspected her of understanding 
him. There was one time, at least, just after the 
war, when she had quite understood—and had 
dismissed him for it! But to-night she was ra¬ 
diant and flattered him with her eyes. The inani¬ 
ties of the receiving line were quickly accom¬ 
plished and in a moment they were on the floor, 
floating through the dance with long, quick 
strides, nodding or making faces as they threaded 
in and out and around the maze of couples. 

The timorous, dinner-coated, ghouls who stand 
on alternate feet along the side lines ready to 
pounce upon favorites with an eager “may I 
break” or dexterously to fail of vision when 
others and less favored pass with helpless and 
hopeful glances, were all whispers and pouncings 
at sight of Alice. In her direction there began a 
perpetual succession, and rarely did a dinner-coat 


203 


New Heaven 

hold her longer than a few steps before the im¬ 
perious “may I break’’ sounded dismissal over his 
shoulder. Like Antaeus who grew seven-fold in 
strength each time he touched his mother Earth, 
the Buccaneer was more popular, more con¬ 
tagious, with each shift of partner. Hers was all 
the politician’s sense for crowds and response to 
them. To-night, after the long retirement, the 
very Spirit of the Dance seemed to envelop her 
and become incarnate in her. Quite aware of the 
stir she made along the side-lines, she exploited it. 
With bold eyes she answered the impassioned 
ones of the little South American diplomat! warm 
hands returned Captain Granville’s impulsive 
pressure! nimble the words that met Colonel 
Dorsey’s badinage! graceful the mockery that ac¬ 
knowledged Winship Tennant’s intoxicated bow! 
and honest the laughter that pealed over the bash¬ 
ful sallies of Henry Durand! 

On with the dance! She swings from the 
American Navy to fervent France! May I 
breakf She scolds an English boy for treading 
on her toes, then charms him with forgiveness! 
On with the dance! Chanting with half-closed 
eyes, she stirs the drab spirit of an austere Neth¬ 
erlands attache until he catches himself weaving 
word music! May I breakf and she is all laugh¬ 
ter, motion and life! 

Across the floor by the tall window draperies, 


204 


The Shaft in the Sky 

Cecilia Lee is balancing on tiptoes and thrum¬ 
ming with white fingers as on some invisible keys. 
At the punchbowl Blaine has found Myrtis and 
begun his evening's work. Down the floor by 
the great mirror are Millicent Bronson and a 
sandy-haired bon vivant, hating each other and 
looking sidewise for help. “Millicent’s stuck" 
the side-lines whisper, and strike her from their 
list of safeties. Nearby, in a corner, Helen Gary 
and Nestor Swan, hoyden spirits, are doing a 
wierd squatting dance of their own invention, 
ruthlessly ugly. Watching enviously is Winship 
Tennant, who wipes the perspiration of impa¬ 
tience from his brow and thinks darkly of the 
matrimonial infidelity of Mr. Adyngton-Sims 
who has left him to dance indefinitely with Mrs. 
Adyngton-Sims. To cut this woman's throat, 
thinks Winship, would be best of sport! Mrs. 
Deering has found Captain Granville and is ac¬ 
cusing him of something with a youthful finger. 
Beyond her, little Bettey Lorrimer is indulging 
her secret passion for Boernstein, the orchestra 
leader, under pretext of asking him to play 
“Humoresque.” Her partner is disgusted; so is 
Boernstein. 

Hugh Cothran is nowhere to be seen, nor Ar¬ 
thur Herrick. In the center of the floor, laugh¬ 
ing at a bobbed-haired girl in pink who is throw¬ 
ing imaginary oyster crackers into her mouth 


New Heaven 


205 


with one hand, is Gilchrist Sturtevant; (it is in¬ 
teresting side-play—he wipes fanciful crumbs 
from her lips with a handkerchief). Seeing the 
“great young man” thus, Alice chatters very 
hard, goes for two glasses of punch, and is off 
again with Colonel Dorsey. When they dance 
past Gilchrist and the pink girl a moment later 
she catches his eye; the black and the gray meet 
again and Alice, blushing, smiles a faint recogni¬ 
tion; Gilchrist is startled and returns the smile 
with automatic cordiality, then seems to begrudge 
the cordiality. 

Smiles they were though, and even if one was 
faint with far-spread experience and the other 
begrudged as soon as born—they arrived. 

“Ouch! you’re hurting my hand,” said the pink 
girl. 

“Its too nice for that,” he agreed, absently, 
“come sit on the steps and I’ll hold it.” 

“Got a cigarette?” 

“Two—and a match. Yes.” 

But on the stairway he forgot about her hand. 
He didn’t even smoke, and his own hand shook a 
little when he held the match for her. Below 
them were Stella and a boy, deep in whispers. 

“Oh, well,” said the pink girl, shrugging, “tell 
me about yourself.” 

He shook his head. “Hugh Cothran says a 
man talks of himself to a girl only if he is in love 


206 The Shaft in the Sky 

with her or if he finds her so dull there is noth¬ 
ing else to talk of.” 

“Then you aren't in love with me! Huh!” 

“And you aren't dull—your insight proves it.” 

“Talk about me then. Nice boy!” 

“You,” he said, smiling queerly, “are an an¬ 
archist. A bright cheeked, soft-haired anarchist. 
The only rule you know, my dear, is that there 
is no rule. You are also a drunkard—too drunk 
with to-day to remember to-morrow. You have¬ 
n't enough sense to be afraid and you don't know 
enough to be worried, so you are a dauntless opti¬ 
mist. There are many others like you and I envy 
you all.” 

She was rubbing her lips with a lip-stick. 
“Aren't you sweet,” she said, “you interest me. 
Go on!” 

He felt very tired. “It’s the supper dance,” he 
said, “let's go up!” 

At supper Alice sat with Captain Granville on 
the divan above the entrance stair. The English¬ 
man had decided that she was much older than 
her mother, and was flattering her with his con¬ 
fidential views on British colonialism, quite aware 
that he had only half her attention. 

Arthur Herrick’s head emerged above the land¬ 
ing at their feet. Arthur was arriving late. He 
looked dissipated; there were rings under his 


207 


New Heaven 

•eyes. Seeing Alice with Granville he was for 
not seeing her. He hated Englishmen. He had 
this hatred carefully analyzed and could recite it 
on occasion. In the first place, insufferable ar¬ 
rogance—national and personal! Habit of pa¬ 
tronizing everything from Americans whom they 
despised as crude colonials to Almighty God 
whom they tolerated as a sort of Cromwellian 
Englishman Himself! Even an Englishman, 
though, Arthur thought, is less repugnant than 
the Washington-girl-with-an-Englishman! Girls 
proud as Lucifer with Americans will grovel 
for any foreigner and in particular for an Eng¬ 
lishman! Most of the debutantes this year are 
more flattered if an Englishman swears at them 
than if an American proposes marriage! Whole 
business un-American, unpatriotic, undignified, 
etc., etc! 

Perhaps the real reason for Arthur’s dislike 
was a passionate jealousy. Because he was an 
artist and loved all expressions of “form,” he 
envied the Britisher his impeccable front, his per¬ 
fect and benevolent orientation of the universe 
upon himself, his inexhaustible savoir faire. In 
his heart Arthur would a thousand times rather 
have been a Britisher than an American; he even 
wished he dared use the broad,“a”. 

So he was passing by—like a true American. 
Alice hailed him imperiously- 




208 


The Shaft in the Sky 
“Halt! Hello!” 

“Oh, hello,” he responded as if he had just 
seen them. “How are you Captain Granville?” 

It was hard to be formal with Alice present but 
Arthur tried. Granville did not trouble to con¬ 
ceal a conviction that the poet was a bore and that 
his early departure was awaited. He was dum- 
founded to hear Alice say presently- 

“The colonialism idea, mon capitaine —Fm very 
much interested. Promise to come back for 
another dance. This is for Arthur—it was—er, 
arranged this morning. You see he's leaving in 
a few minutes and he has something to tell me. 
Oh, there's the music now. But do be careful 
of the Countess Clementina—I’m sure you were 
flirting with her.” 

He looked seriously at Arthur and was sudden¬ 
ly and illogically convinced that this Alice Deer- 
ing’was a most extraordinarily interesting girl. 
Different fronrthe mater! He rather liked being 
dismissed in this way! 

“Aw-right, old top, a bientot,” he drawled 
good-humoredly, and left. 

“Fee fi fo fum,” said Arthur, tossing away the 
cigarette he had lighted to cover his discomfort. 
“Good for you, Alice. It’s provincial—really it 
is—the way this silly bunch worship a foreigner. 
It’s the old toadying of the province to the cosmo- 
polis.” 



New Heaven 209 

“Cosmopolis? What’s that? Don’t be silly— 
he’s adorable.” 

“Not as bad as some of them, perhaps. But 
why, why make little white gods of them! Listen 
—the real capital of the world to-day is Washing¬ 
ton. We’re the richest, best organized, most 
able-” 

She was pinching him. “Don’t make speeches 
to me, sir. You sound Prussian. Tell me"—you 
look like Midnight’s oldest—where were you last 
night?” 

“Good Lord! You don’t mean you haven’t 
heard about Hugh and—and Anne McLanahan ?” 

“I certainly do. What about them? Who is 
Anne McLanahan? Answer me, stupid!” 

“She’s the girl Sturtevant brought to Wash¬ 
ington from Bloody Hollow.” There was drama 
in his throat. He told the whole story of the 
sledding party and the accident, not even omitting 
Hugh’s behavior before he had fainted. And, 
because his spirit cried for a confidante, he went 
further and told of his first meeting with Anne. 

Alice was biting her lip. 

“After all, Arthur, you are a bit of a fool. 
Fancy believing that rot about—Gilchrist! The 
girl—is she crippled? It’s terrible!” 

She was silent a moment. Arthur lighted an¬ 
other cigarette. 

“You must take me to see her in the morning.” 



210 


The Shaft in the Sky 

“All right. I will. Hugh was—of course he 
was all overwrought last night. I never really 
believed the story except that just at the moment 
—when he told me who she was—it sort of floored 
me. Sturtevant says Hugh had him arrange for 
a specialist to come over from Johns Hopkins.” 

“I think it’s the most pitiful thing I ever knew. 
I don’t see how you could come here to-night?” 

“Well—I—nothing else to do. Promised Cess 
to take her to Childs later on. She was with us 
last night herself.” 

“Dancing’s bread and meat to her,” said Alice 
with some emphasis; Cecilia was being hailed the 
most popular debutante of the season. “She’s 
careful about her feelings—only feels what she 
wants to.” 

“I don’t know, Alice. Cess is a high-strung 
sort. People misunderstand her.” Hugh had 
shaken “one” woman from the poet’s sky and he 
was yearning now towards a new evening star. 

“Hugh’s a dear,” Alice mused, “and with his 
collar bone broken!” 

“Sturtevant was with him all afternoon. Says 
Hugh’s worrying about his refusal to consider 
that political job Senator Calhoun wants him to 
take—Industrial Relations Commission. I don’t 
blame Sturtevant a bit; he’s sick of politics. We’re 
going to make a big thing of this oil business— 
looks too good to be true now.” Arthur was 


New Heaven 


211 


rambling absently. “Suppose you and he have 
forgotten the, er—late unpleasantness. I say, 
Alice, look at Cess—grown up wonderfully, hasn’t 
she—never thought she’d be such a hit—that 
Frenchman’s making an ass of himself about her 1 
Come along with us to Childs to-night, will you? 
Remember the night you started them all singing 
in there and the manager wanted to put you out ? 
What did-?” 

“Yes, I remember—last spring,” she inter¬ 
rupted, “he—Gilchrist was along. I was behav¬ 
ing like the very devil. I think he wanted to 
throttle the manager and me both.” 

“Who ? Sturtevant ? I didn’t know him then. 
Fine chap, really he is, Alice. How do you feel 
about him now?” 

“Why, I feel—oh—all right, thanks, how do 
you feel? Come on old chatterbox, I feel as if 
I’d like to dance.” She pulled him to his feet and 
ran furiously up the stairs ahead of him. 



Chapter Seventeen 


/WORTH Nine Nine Nine.” 

-*■ * The coin was in the slot, the number 
given, but Hugh had changed his mind. After 
all what was it he wanted to say to Cecilia? It 
was the third time this had happened in two days 
—a total loss of fifteen cents. He returned the 
receiver slowly and pushed at the booth door with 
his sound shoulder. Well, it was late, anyhow— 
he was due at the hospital! Call up at noon. 
Jove, what a thoroughbred she had been that 
night with Anne! With Anne! Ah! 

The specialist from Hopkins had taken more 
than an ordinary interest in Anne’s case. The 
calm oval face on the pillow, the apologetic, self- 
scorning smile and shy, thoughtful eyes, smote 
him beyond mere professional concern. “She 
helps me with her spirit,” he told Hugh, “when¬ 
ever it is possible for the spirit to control the flesh 
she wins.” 

There were times, though, as to-day, when the 

sheer physical pain of it would fill her eyes and 

the firm hot hands would clench and unclench 

until the moment had passed and she could smile 

212 


213 


New Heaven 

again. The doctor had just left when Hugh came. 
Seeing all the story of recent harsh experience in 
the soft face he felt himself stabbed with her 
trouble more than he could ever have been with 
any of his own. 

“Better to-day!” he insisted, trying to smile. 

“Oh, much!” she agreed wanly. 

He couldn’t bear it. Suddenly a hot, protest¬ 
ing impulse flung him into the chair at the bed¬ 
side, drew his free hand to caress the fevered 
cheek and brow while he muttered all manner of 
foolish things- 

“Dear, dear—they hurt you so, don’t they— 
what can I do—they mustn’t hurt you again— 
I—they shan’t-” 

Her eyes became all wonder and unashamed 
delight. 

“But it doesn’t hurt now, Mr. Coth—Hugh,” 
she said. 

There were tears in his eyes, yet, strangely 
enough, he thought of Cecilia for just an instant. 
Then he looked soberly at the crippled girl. “I 
love you,” he said as if amazed at his own words, 
“Anne McLanahan, do you hear me saying I love 
you? I think—all my life I’ve been looking for 
you.” 

He pressed her hand against his cheek and 
kissed it. “Now I’ve found you—you’ll never 




214 The Shaft in the Shy 

go away. You are for me—and I for you—al¬ 
ways.” 

She lay quite still and watched him as if he 
were a long distance away—as though she were 
lost in some dim dream. Gradually there came 
into her eyes recognition, sudden intimacy, en¬ 
chantment. Her lips trembled with tenderness. 
Then the dream passed, she turned her face to 
the pillow and sobbed like a very little girl, sobbed 
as she never had before in her life. 

“Oh, Hugh, if I could only walk—I can’t— 
perhaps I can never walk!” 

She was imploring him as though he were Fate 
itself. His left arm slipped from the sling in 
which he had worn it for two weeks and with both 
arms now he held her- 

“Angel—if you never walk I'll love you enough 
to make up for it—I will—really I will. But you 
shall walk—you’ve got to—I believe it—know it.” 
He kissed her eyes. “Poor little thing—such a 
damned rotten time—cry some more, dear.” 

At this the sun came out; tears turned to 
laughter. “I don’t want to cry any more,” she 
said, dabbing at her eyes with Hugh’s handker¬ 
chief, “but—but this is such a nice place to cry.” 

Then the nurse came in and it was embarrassing 
and there was much confusion while Anne was re¬ 
turned to her proper place in bed and Hugh’s left 
arm to its proper place in the sling. He felt that 



New Heaven 


215 


some explanation was due, and at the same time 
was determined not to make one. To relieve the 
painful silence he engaged nurse in a rather in¬ 
tense conversation on the after effects of in¬ 
fluenza. Anne smiled interest but with only the 
barest notion of what was being said. When he 
brought her brilliantly into the talk by asking 
how often Alice had been to see her and how she 
liked the Buccaneer, the invalid replied with ani¬ 
mation “Yes, my father had influenza last fall.” 
Nurse’s smile was most insulting. 

He left the hospital and walked Pennsylvania 
Avenue, loving everyone he passed, entranced 
with odors of hot popcorn, gasoline, ham and 
eggs, printer’s ink. After an hour he bounded 
into Gilchrist’s office and found his friend in con¬ 
ference with Arthur Herrick and a nervous, lean 
little man who was tapping at the arm of his chair 
with an unlighted cigarette. The interruption 
was apparently disturbing for the three were not 
at all responsive to the smiles Hugh poured over 
them. The little man with the cigarette looked 
bewildered when the newcomer grasped his hand 
heartily, proclaiming with every semblance of de¬ 
light “Jove, pleased to meet you, I am indeed, 
Mr.—er-” 

“Cox,” said Gilchrist, annoyed. Hugh should¬ 
n’t drink before lunch! 

Insensitive to the rebuke in his friend’s eyes, 



216 


The Shaft in the Sky 

Hugh clapped him on the shoulder and shook 
Arthur’s hand violently. He smiled insanely at 
the poet until, as if only just recognizing him, he 
frowned, then smiled again. 

“I interrupted you, gentlemen,” he announced 
graciously, “shall I get out?” 

“Sit down, Hugh,” said Gilchrist patiently. 

The little man was staring. “You don’t re¬ 
member me, Mr. Cothran. I was order clerk at 
Hibb’s when you were trading there before the 
war. You-” 

“Ye gods, I do at that. The margins you’ve 
dunned me for, man! I used to hold you person¬ 
ally responsible.” 

“Hope luck’s turned for you by now, Mr. Coth¬ 
ran. I’m talking to these gentlemen about 
Western Leasing.” 

“Western Leasing?” Hugh remembered the 
conversation about this stock he had overheard 
between Robert Deering and his lawyer on the 
day of his walk with Alice. Because of what he 
had heard then he had felt in honor bound against 
speculating in that particular issue. But he was 
sure of its value. 

“Best thing I know,” he said, “are you selling 
it?” 

“There isn’t any more for sale,” the broker 
smiled, looking at Sturtevant. 

“Hugh,” said Gilchrist nervously, “Mr. Cox 



217 


New Heaven 

offers us five thousand shares of Western Leasing 
for our entire holdings in the Talbot Company. 
We've struck oil on the Talbot claim, you know, 
and the prospect is splendid." 

Hugh whistled incredulity. “What's the idea, 
anyhow, Cox ? I thought you said there was no 
more on the market?" 

“There isn’t," said Mr. Cox, “I'm acting for a 
party holding a block of the original." 

“I don't get it," said the other, “why does your 
party want the Talbot Company?" The implica¬ 
tion in his question did not flatter the Talbot Com¬ 
pany. Arthur and Gilchrist looked severe. 

“You’ve never believed in the company, Hugh," 
said Gilchrist, “naturally you can’t see what's 
plain to us. Somebody has wind of it that we’ve 
got a big thing out there." 

There was a peculiar tolerance in Mr. Cox's 
smile. Intuition leaped to Hugh's enlightenment 
where logic would not, for surely this was most 
preposterously illogical. 

“Guess I'm with you on this, Cox," he said 
slowly, “your party may smell a lot of oil in the 
Talbot Company all right, but that isn't the 
point." 

“Then what is the point ?" said Gilchrist rather 
helplessly. 

“The point is that Western Leasing is sure. 
The President signed the bill last week and there's 


218 


The Shaft in the Sky 

no gamble at all now. Man alive, Gik, do you 
realize that this stock he’s offering you has a 
market value of seventy-five thousand ? You and 
Arthur couldn’t realize more than twenty thou¬ 
sand on your Talbot holdings even if you tied them 
up in ribbon. And it’s still a gamble. Oh sure, 
I know—you may strike thousand-barrel gushers 
but, damn it, Gik, it isn’t your line. That’s what 
I mean. It’s for loafers and mystics like Ar— 
like me. Not you!” His earnestness made him 
forget the others. Gilchrist was tearing bits of 
paper into small pieces and rolling them between 
his fingers; his whole manner spoke a desperate 
indecision. The man whose nature it was to make 
his own way seemed to have lost all his morale in 
a new and, for him, unnatural reliance upon 
Chance to make it for him. 

The broker tossed his cigarette into the waste¬ 
basket and rose. He had intuitions himself. 
“No hurry about this, gentlemen,” he said, “I’ll 
phone you in a day or so and see how you feel 
about it.” 

Arthur rose, too. He was beginning to hate 
Hugh thoroughly. Hate him for the hold he had 
on Gilchrist, hate him for his cheerfulness and 
healthiness, hate him for being the very things 
Arthur wanted to be himself. 

When they were gone Hugh sat on the edge of 
the desk and kicked the wastebasket thoughtfully. 


219 


New Heaven 

A book fell off to the floor; he picked it up and 
examined the inscription—it was the volume of 
Swinburne Arthur had given Gilchrist. “De¬ 
cadent stuff” he muttered, tossing the volume 
aside. Gilchrist’s eyes were wavering, half de¬ 
fiant, half apologetic. Hugh remembered how he 
had always liked the other’s direct, self-confident 
way of looking at people. He spoke coldly. 

“Don’t you see this is your chance to get out of 
a rotten mess ? It doesn’t go with you—this luck 
business—you know it too. Weak—damned 
weak, I say. It isn’t you, either. Big 'things 
you’ve got to do and you’re letting them slide.” 
He kicked viciously at the wastebasket and 
turned searchingly to his friend’s eyes. “Lining 
up with a lot of get-rich-quick folks who want to 
beat the game, not play it.” 

The other’s silence smote him like a blow in the 
face. He regretted the harshness of his manner. 

“I’m not criticizing you,” he said whimsically, 
“I’m just giving you hell. Oh—get out of it, 
Gik, won’t you, old man? Jove, we’re a long way 
from that afternoon at Rheims last year, aren’t 
we? Remember the sunset?” 

“It went to our heads,” Gilchrist said, smiling. 
Yet the allusion brought him sudden and poignant 
memories of a day in France, just before sailing 
home, when he and Hugh had pledged themselves 
to an emancipated world. 


220 


The Shaft in the Sky 

His friend stumbled on, groping with all his 
might for hidden and long silent chords upon 
which he might play. He could not feel that his 
efforts brought back any of the old enthusiasms 
but at least they cleared away some of the reserve 
and misunderstanding which had come between 
the two since the election. More than once he re¬ 
called the day at Rheims. 

Gilchrist seemed absorbed in his own thoughts 
and it was not until Hugh was leaving that he 
spoke. 

“Whether you’re right or not/’ he said, with 
something of the old-time positiveness, “Fm glad 
to have you say what you have. Friendship like 
yours is the only abiding thing in this rather in¬ 
explicable world, Hugh. Don’t think I haven’t 
appreciated it. And you’ve given me a lot to 
think about, old Gascon!” 

Later in the afternoon, for his own satisfaction, 
Hugh telephoned Mr. Cox. “Want to ask you a 
bald question,” he said, “What’s your real 
opinion of the Talbot Company stock?” 

He could not see but he was convinced that the 
broker was grinning. “Speaking man to man, 
Mr. Cothran, I wouldn’t give half a dollar for the 
whole issue.” 

“I thought so. Then either you’re a rotten 
broker or your client is crazy—how about it?” 


New Heaven 


221 


“Neither/’ said Mr. Cox, “my client is a 
woman.” 

Putting various twos together Hugh might 
have identified the extraordinary client—if he 
had not been drunk with the wonder of a girl’s 
face on a white, hospital bed. 

Among other feelings, he felt strangely im¬ 
portant. And domestic. He was veteran of his 
full quota of romances but never before had he 
experienced this sense of domesticity and fitness, 
of safe and final harborage. Strange though that 
that telephone number should be repeating itself 
in the back of his head—North Nine Nine Nine! 
This with Anne was so enormously different from 
the Cecilia business! That was fantastic—the 
most fantastic of all! He had actually avoided a 
closer or more constant relationship with Cecilia 
because of a half-confessed wish that the fancy 
he wove about her might not be torn with any 
touches of reality. Often, when he might have 
had her actual presence, he had preferred a quiet 
corner at the club from which he could write to 
her. Jealous for his fancy and stubbornly refus¬ 
ing to put to the test the things he so much 
wanted to believe, he had built for himself a 
lovely, fictitious Cecilia and lightly adored her! 
But Anne—Anne was real! There was no play¬ 
ing at love with her, no fancy-weaving. He 
had no inclination to perform antics for Anne, no 


222 


The Shaft in the Sky 

self-consciousness in what he felt, no egotism. 
There was a verse he remembered, one his mother 
liked, from Tennyson- 

“Love took up the Harp of Life and smote on all the 
chords with might, 

Smote the chord of Self that, trembling, passed in music 
out of sight.” 

Oh, the blessed little girl, he thought! North 
Nine Nine Nine—damn that number! 



Chapter Eighteen 

/JhlCR was inspecting her mirror while the 
-*-*• maid dressed her hair. Two years ago 
when she had been called the handsomest debu¬ 
tante she had frankly agreed, with much zest. 
But now there were no more thrills in being 
handsome and she was asking something else of 
the mirror. “Spirituality” was the word that 
occurred to her. Like Cecilia? Not at all— 
Cecilia's face was spiritual but nothing else about 
her was! Well, why spirituality anyhow? Per¬ 
haps it was that spiritual beauty lasts longer; she 
was sure her own face would be commonplace 
at forty when the color and smoothness were 
gone. She remembered Hugh Cothran's mother 
who was fifty and beautiful in a rare, intangible 
way that had nothing to do with color or surface 
or feature. She thought of “reducing” and then 
decided against arriving at spirituality in that 
manner. Oh, well, Anne McLanahan was 
spiritual and one wouldn't really want to look like 
Anne! Anne was too sweet! In many visits to 
the hospital she had grown quite fond of the 
crippled girl, of course, but she didn't want to 

223 


224 


The Shaft in the Sky 

look like her! Arthur said they were Victorians 
—Anne and Hugh. Really, Miss Dupont's was 
a rotten School—what were Victorians? 

‘Til finish it myself, Melcina,” she said to the 
maid. “Now listen carefully. When Mr. Sturte- 
vant comes you must tell him I came in late and 
say I’ll be down in about ten minutes. No matter 
when he comes—ten minutes.” However neglect¬ 
ful of the Victorian Age Miss Dupont’s may 
have been, the psychology courses must have been 
thorough. 

For twenty minutes after Gilchrist’s arrival 
was announced Alice sat in her bedroom before 
the woodfire—thinking. Principally it was of 
what Hugh had told her on the day of their walk 
in the snow—of the afternoon he and Gilchrist 
had passed at Rheims. Once she gave a queer 
little sound and murmured “my dear, my dear”— 
and twice she said “damn.” When the hands of 
the silver clock on the mantel reached the proper 
place she powdered her nose and descended. 

He greeted her with careful cordiality. She 
did not like this; if he had been stern or sulky 
or belligerent she would have been better pleased. 

“You wonder why I asked you to come?” she 

said quietly. 

* 

“Why, no,” he replied, lounging against a table, 
“It was nice of you to ask me, Alice. We can be 



New Heaven 


22 5 


friends, I hope. I’m not so much a fool as I was 
last spring, you know.” 

“It’s a pity,” she exclaimed, hating his suavity. 
But this, she knew, was just the sort of thing she 
had intended not to say. 

“May we smoke?” he asked. “This, er—re¬ 
union is rather a nerve wrecker.” 

“If you like,” she smiled, “I’m not smoking. 
You’re heavily masked, Gilchrist, aren’t you?” 

He began to see that this was an Alice he had 
never met before and one who was apparently 
determined to quarrel. The situation angered 
him; he had so determined a belief that she was 
eliminated from his scheme of things that now 
he found himself unpleasantly startled at receiv¬ 
ing any sort of positive impression of her per¬ 
sonality. He had accepted her invitation to call 
with vague anticipation of an occasion which 
would be altogether his own and would provide 
him enough of drama to exhaust some of the per¬ 
plexity and depression he had felt since the talk 
with Hugh. And now, instead, it looked as if 
Alice meant to take for herself the leading role. 
Jealously he asserted himself. 

“In civilized communities it’s customary to wear 
some sort of mask, isn’t it? Really, Alice, why 
should you and I, of all people, unmask for each 
other ? What have we in common that entitles me 
to presume so—or to be honored so?” 


226 


The Shaft in the Sky 

She felt a little thrill; here was a bitterness 
which might overlie flattering things! On second 
thought, however, she rejected the thrill and de¬ 
cided wisely that this bitterness was bigger than 
she was in his soul. She remembered what Hugh 
had said—that Gilchrist was disillusioned about 
everything in which he had ever been interested. 
In an instant she changed her whole conception 
and plan. For the first time in her life she was 
ready now to sacrifice herself, her vanity of 
success, for the good of another’s soul. The 
game she knew so well how to play, she was about 
to play against herself. For the service she could 
do him could only be done at cost of a new bitter¬ 
ness in his heart against her. 

“I suppose you’re right, Gilchrist—we don’t 
want to be immodest.” 

They talked idly of idle things for a while. 
Then she led again. 

“You’ve been a great fool, my dear, haven’t 
you? I’ve heard lately that you’ve come to your 
senses and—and that’s why I sent for you. I 
wanted you to know how glad I am.” 

“Come to my senses?” he repeated. 

“Yes. I’ve been talking to Arthur. He says 
you’ve given up this idea of reforming the world. 
You’re going in for business and social success.” 
She used the word “social” carefully and won 
an instant flash in his eyes. 


New Heaven 227 

“Social success!” he exclaimed, and his jaw set 
in a way she knew well. “The chief end of man, 
I suppose!’' His head was thrown back; he was 
beginning to remember. “Alice, I hope the just 
Gods strike me dumb before I ever am a social 
success!” 

She lighted a cigarette. It was a good word! 

“Oh, don’t be so damnably noble, Gilchrist. 
You know very well what I mean. Everyone is 
out for himself in this world and you are a man 
to twist things your way. Why should you go 
in for this drivel about Humanity—you see now 
it gets you nothing! The trouble is you fell in 
with a lot of dreamers like Senator Calhoun and 
Hugh and they nearly ruined you.” 

Sneered at by this woman, of all women, the 
gods Gilchrist had almost forgotten came rushing 
back to him. Intolerable that Alice Deering 
should scoff at his friends! Humanity! What 
did she know of Humanity? The anger that 
welled in him, the accumulation of ten months’ 
restraint, was more than he could control. He 
crossed blindly to her chair and put both hands 
on her shoulders with a grip that hurt. 

“You little fool! You profane little fool! I’m 
glad you said that—if you hadn’t I might have 
forgotten how much those things and those 
friends are to me. I might have forgotten how 
pitifully little’you and your worlds are! Yes, I 


228 


The Shaft in the Shy 

might have forgotten how much better it is to be 
discouraged and defeated and disillusioned—than 
to be empty headed, empty hearted, empty 
souled!” 

His eyes were blazing into Alice’s but her own 
were bright with a strange and selfless triumph. 
The grip on her shoulder was unmerciful. She 
took one of his hands and pulled it into her lap. 
She had won—for him—and now she was free 
to fight for herself. 

“Dear fool,” she whispered, “I love you.” 

He turned away, roughly, “More profanity. 
I’ll go now.” 

Her eyes were closed. She made no motion. 
He stood over her, brooding and tired. Nearby 
he could hear the clock ticking. He tossed back 
his head and set his teeth as if to recover some 
lost advantage. 

Then her eyes opened full on him and held him. 
Held him until the scorn and anger in his own 
turned to sorrow and the sorrow to something 
else. For seconds, or years, the black and gray 
communed again until he dropped to the arm of 
her chair, drew her face desperately to his and 
kissed her, kissed her twice and many times. 

“Oh, you’re beautiful—your eyes are beauti¬ 
ful,” he moaned, half-exulting. 

There was a fragrance in her hair, her cheeks 
were warm, her lips trembled. He could feel the 


New Heaven 


229 


quick breath come and go from her body. Time 
was a word, a thing of no consequence while he 
held her so. His consciousness of her was com¬ 
plete; not for an instant could he forget whom he 
held, forget in the intoxication of soft flesh and 
contour that she was a personality, a dominance, 
a mystery, a subtlety. She was a woman but, 
more than that, she was Alice Deering. In an¬ 
other sense he felt it was she who held him here 
by the firelight and that there was nothing in 
the world so low or so high that her will could 
not send him to it at this moment. 

She sat up straight, drawing herself free. 

“Are you going now?” she said coolly. 

“Now! Yes/’ he stammered and instantly felt 
himself a stranger to her as though this had never 
happened. 

He never quite remembered how he found his 
coat and hat or left the house. 

Great rivers and great decisions, traced back 
to their headwaters, pass through strange, in¬ 
congruous valleys. Senator Calhoun was too little 
an explorer to trace back to its inspiration a note 
he found in his morning mail. 

“Dear Senator: I know you will forgive my apparent 
inconsistency when I tell you that I have decided to ac¬ 
cept the President’s nomination to the Industrial Com¬ 
mission. Your tact and enthusiasm will, I am sure, do 


230 


The Shaft in the Sky 

more than anything else for me in the Senate struggle. 
The opposition of the White interests, which is as per¬ 
sistent as it is inexplicable, is undoubtedly the principal 
thing in the way of confirmation. I am rushing this to 
you before leaving for a week in the mountains. Wish 
you were coming with me. I shall never forget your 
'Armageddon/ 

“Affectionately, 

“Gilchrist Sturtevant.” 

But there was another to whom exploration 
was very life. When Alice, breakfasting in bed 
one morning, read that Commander Sturtevant, 
“co-author with Senator Calhoun of the Indus¬ 
trial Relations Act,” had accepted a nomination 
to the Commission and that a fight over his con¬ 
firmation was brewing in the Senate, she sobbed 
a little and murmured, apropos of nothing, 

“Fool! dear fool—I love you!” 


Chapter Nineteen 

ALEC BROWN was not only Chair- 
man of the Essex County Democratic 
Committee, editor of the Essex Gazette, and post¬ 
master for the township. He was also a woods¬ 
man and had hunted with the best. Contemplat¬ 
ing his host across the log-walled room, however, 
he decided that Gilchrist Sturtevant was no 
woodsman at all and knew as little about hunting 
as he did about weather. Three days as the young 
man's invited and almost abducted guest at his 
mountain camp had induced in Mr. Brown so 
lively a sense of the other's incapacity for the 
avowed purposes of the outing that the most 
cheerful thing in his consciousness was the fact 
that the “vacation" would end in four days and 
that Essex was only twenty miles distant by 
sleigh. On the first day after their arrival Gil¬ 
christ had let a beautiful buck lope away from him 
without firing a shot; on the second day when they 
had startled two deer at the foot of Hurricane, 
Mr. Brown had waited politely to give his friend 
opportunity to make his first kill—only to find that 
Gilchrist had come away with no cartridges in 

231 


232 


The Shaft in the Sky 

his magazine or belt. And, to-day, which was the 
third day, Mr. Brown had risen at six to find his 
host breakfasted and gone, not to return until 
nightfall and then without rifle or explanation. 

“I calculate,” he remarked after supper, “you 
wasn’t hunting to-day.” 

“Not to-day; I had some letters to mail.. 
Walked down to Lewis.” 

“That’s twelve—fourteen miles by the new 
trail.” Mr. Brown was resolved to be sociable 
at any rate. “Republican postmaster—Whitte- 
more. Reckon he’ll be going to the legislature 
come next September.” 

“Oh, that so?” 

“Yes, I reckon. They ain’t any Democrats to 
oppose him. That McLanahan is up for the 
socialist-laborers.” 

“Humph!” 

“He’s got his Frenchman out making speeches 
for him. I calculate the French ain’t very good 
speakers, Mister Sturtevant—they’re too sort of 
hasty.” 

“Humph!” 

Mr. Brown surrendered. “The horses haven’t 
had their feed, yet,” he said. “Reckon I’ll do that 
now. You set right there, because I know it’s 
sorter restful after walking fourteen miles.” 

When he had gone Gilchrist continued to sit 


New Heaven 


233 


with long legs hugged in his arms before the 
leaping new fire. His body was cramped and his 
muscles ached from the long trudge to Lewis. 
He liked this feeling of discomfort; in his present 
mood he felt there might be something weak about 
comfort. 

His dramatic sense was pleased with the en¬ 
vironment; indeed, had planned it. The log fire 
darting huge shadows about the room, the 
measureless quiet outside except for the sifting 
sound of hard -snow against the windowpane, the 
heavy boots and woolen shirt he wore—all were 
expressions of self-conscious drama. 

It was like him though, after creating this pic¬ 
turesque stage-setting, to forget it altogether and 
to be aware only of the spiritual crisis that had 
inspired it. He might just as well have been back 
in his noisy room in town for all the effect of the 
camp atmosphere now. 

On the floor lay the volume of Swinburne 
which Arthur had given him. That Gilchrist, 
who ordinarily cared nothing for poetry, should 
have troubled to bring this book with him was elo¬ 
quent of the emotional condition in which he had 
left Washington. There was a passage running 
in his head tonight, a thing Arthur had read him 
once; he opened the book to hunt it by the fire¬ 
light— 



234 


The Shaft in the Sky 

“We have heard from hidden places 
What love scarce lives and hears, 

We have seen on fervent faces 
The pallor of strange tears, 

We have trod the wine-vat’s treasure 
Whence, ripe to steam or stain, 

Foams round the feet of pleasure 
The blood-red must of pain.” 

“The snake that hides and hisses 
In heaven we twain have known, 

The grief of cruel kisses, 

The joy whose mouth makes moan, 

The pulses’ pause and measure 
Where in one furtive vein 
Throbs through the heart of pleasure 
The purpler blood of pain.” 

Pleasure and pain! Grief of cruel kisses! Ah, 
they were cruel, those kisses! He had never held 
any woman as he had held Alice. He felt that 
all kisses must be like that. Men and women 
meant to each other only pleasure followed with 
pain. Love was simply the desire for pleasure, 
hate the reaction from surfeit of pleasure! Hor¬ 
rible ! An animal civilization! Except that 
animals are not cursed with banal fancies that 
dress these things in false names and faded senti¬ 
mentalities ! 

The door opened and closed quickly. Mr. 
Brown was back, bringing fresh logs for the fire. 
He put them down and stood before the blaze, 
rubbing his hands and waiting, as he did every 
night, Gilchrist's invitation to light a pipe. Mr. 


New Heaven 


235 


Brown was rather afraid of the strange young 
man now; also he was very punctilious. But no 
invitation came. Gilchrist replied absently and in 
monosyllables to conversational leaders, drum¬ 
ming on the floor with nervous fingers. So Mr. 
Brown decided again that he wasn’t wanted and 
began edging towards the sleeping room door. 
“Reckon I’ll be turning into bed,” he suggested 
sadly. 

Gilchrist came to earth at once, ashamed of his 
inhospitality. “Oh, say Alec—don’t go yet. I’m 
being damnably unsociable, I’m afraid. Don’t 
know what’s wrong with me to-day. Light up, 
won’t you, and let’s chat a bit!” 

Mr. Brown wiped his nose*with his sleeve; he 
was very sensitive. “Not in the least, Mister 
Sturtevant, not in the least,” he protested. 
“Reckon you just haven’t any conversation to¬ 
night whatsoever. Sometimes I’m like that my¬ 
self—don’t seem to have any conversation.” *He 
paused.for a word as though he were making a 
speech. “—whatsoever,” he added for emphasis. 
“I calculated on going to bed early to-night any¬ 
how—sorter sleepy—reckon I’ll be saying good¬ 
night—going to turn into bed.” 

He was forgotten as soon as gone and Gil¬ 
christ resumed his fire T gazing. Yes, it was an 
animal thing—love! Yet there was biology; love 
was important at least from that standpoint—it 


236 


The Shaft in the Sky 

meant reproduction. Maintenance of the species, 
the family, the individual. Couldn’t be altogether 
dross—it was too important! 

But why—to everything, why? Maintenance 
of the species! That was begging the question 
with a platitude. Why should the species be 
maintained after all? Why be exploited morally 
by a principle of biology? For thousands of years 
this particular species had been continued and 
was no better to-day than in the beginning. When 
in all history were selfishness, deceit, lust, hate, 
unhappiness, as widespread as to-day! 

A smoky ember snapped from the fire and fell 
on the rug. He kicked at it and rose impatiently 
to brush it onto the hearth—he mustn’t be inter¬ 
rupted! But why? Why not be interrupted 
since he had come to his conclusion ? Why did he 
feel that this was not the conclusion, that he must 
reach another? He wondered if his thoughts 
were like a motion picture story, sure to end well 
and, by that token, incomplete until the happy 
ending had been attained. In the back of his 
mind, he confessed, was a vague belief that he 
would settle this business against the animal idea. 
Again—why? Eternally, why? Thus far his 
logical processes had been unimpeachable; there 
was no real case for “carrying on,” for ideals or 
progress, since all development was towards a 
larger and larger ugliness. Instance the world 


New Heaven 


237 


panorama now at the close of the Greatest War 
—hateful! Could it be that in his very desire 
to reach a good ending without regard for the 
logic of it, there was a clue—that Progress, in 
spite of its hideous manifestations, served the 
Purpose of some dim God whose plan he did not 
comprehend ? Even so—again the why! Even if 
development followed some unfathomable Pur¬ 
pose, even if there were an Ultimate Good 
towards which the world moved, why should he 
serve it? What would it mean to him? In the 
last analysis why should he serve any ends be¬ 
yond his own animal lusts and animal needs? 

Ugliness? Bernard Shaw would say “how do 
you know what is ugly and what is not?” But 
that was outrageous; he leaped to cross swords 
with this intellectual acrobat whose denial of all 
that was dramatic or emotional had always irri¬ 
tated him. “I don’t know how I know what is 
ugly and what is beautiful, but all your cleverness 
can’t dodge the fact that I do know.” He was sure 
of that! 

And was there not an explanation, after all? 
Ah, here was the beginning of a certain wisdom! 
He did know what was ugly and what beautiful— 
not by any reasoning process, not because there 
were any immutable laws that determined these 
things, not even because the things were fixed 
and static—but through medium of a certain 


238 


The Shaft in the Sky 

quality in his nature. A sixth sense! That was 
vague, of course, and incorrect too, for this thing 
wasn't really a sense! Yet, positively, there was 
a faculty in the human makeup that gave the 
power of discrimination. Not only the power but 
the habit—and, more important still, the inclina¬ 
tion ! Through such a, faculty he knew that old 
Hurricane with its rocky head buried in snow as 
he had seen it at sunrise on the trail to Lewis was 
beautiful—and that the street where John Mc- 
Lanahan lived in Bloody Hollow was ugly! 

Ah, he was arriving now—this very faculty 
was driving him to arrive, determining him to 
do it! A Sixth Sense! It was a thing that might 
tell him everything. It told him that Hugh’s way 
was better than Arthur’s, that the Senator’s 
Armageddon was worth fighting for even if 
never attained, that Pierre Guibert’s love of his 
fellow-man was the most blessed thing in life, 
that there was something clean in the physical 
relationships of men and women! As far as he 
could look it cleared the way! It proclaimed the 
Purpose at work in the universe and the un¬ 
fathomable wisdom of that Purpose; it explained 
those men who had rather serve than be served! 
A Purpose! God? Certainly not a white-haired 
old man, but the God that was in some strange 
way behind this Sixth Sense, the God that existed 
in the indomitable spirits of men, the God that 


New Heaven 


239 


made knight-errants and led them ever towards 
a proximate goal without betraying the final one, 
the God that shone in Senator Calhoun's face 
when he spoke dimly of Armageddon! Yes, the 
God that was driving himself, Gilchrist Sturte- 
vant, now to lift once more against the world 
wreck His “banner of forlorn defense" and, if 
nothing better offered, “to tilt at windmills under 
a wild sky!" That God he confessed! 

He stood up slowly. At this moment he felt 
ashamed of everything he had ever done—of his 
self-serving triumphs, of his self-centered fail¬ 
ures. He tiptoed into the sleeping room and stood 
over his snoring guest. Poor old chap! Rotten 
outing for him! 

“Alec—Alec!" he called, shaking the sleeper 
gently. 

“Reckon you better take my gun," said Mr. 
Brown, dreaming. 

“Awfully sorry to wake you up, Alec. Say, 
we’ll have to be going back to town in the morn¬ 
ing. Get up at five to catch that eleven o’clock 
from Essex." 

Mr. Brown sat up in bed, fantastic in a purple 
nightshirt. “Huh? How’s that? Thought you 
wasn’t going ’til Saturday!" 

“Hope you don’t mind. It’s my, er—sixth 
sense." 

“Huh? How’s that?" 


240 The Shaft in the Sky 

“I mean—important letter. Got it at Lewis 
to-day." 

“All right." Mr. Brown was sliding back 
under his blanket. “It ain’t five yet, is it, Mister 
Sturtevant?" 

“You win," Gilchrist smiled, “it’s only eleven 
the night before. I didn’t mean to wake you up." 


Chapter Twenty 


T/f/ ITH early spring comes a decline and 
V* fall of the debutante season. Dowager 
mothers, weary of careful and constant campaign¬ 
ing for their daughters, relax or begin campaigns 
in their own behalves. By March it is the gown 
or goings of “Mrs.” that crowd the social 
columns; “Miss” is out of fashion, and the Tattler 
turns from talk of buds to more absorbing tales 
of divorcees. Generally, at this time, Colonel 
Dorsey, who is wealthy, middle-aged and single, 
makes his annual decision that after all it will be 
better to wed a dowager than a debutante, and 
almost overnight the personnel of his famous din¬ 
ner parties shifts a generation. (The Colonel’s 
decisions are things of importance because he is 
a real estate man and in Washington the topmost 
rungs of the social ladder are strongly held by 
diplomats and “real estaters.”) 

The debutantes of this year (which was the 
Stella Chambers or neo-Alice Deering year) were 
flappers to the core, and under cover of the obliv¬ 
ion that succeeded their season they now began 
a more serious application of the flapperdoms 

241 


242 


The Shaft in the Sky 

they had learned. The underlying principle of 
flapperage was that there are no rules except the 
rule of social place. One must not swear, for 
instance, at large dinners but at small affairs it 
is quite important to do so. An intoxicated man, 
if he is well-bred about it, is an ornament that 
lends distinction to the wearer, and if the 
“wearer” herself be mildly afflicted with the same 
malady the distinction accumulates. Proposals 
of marriage are excellent feathers for the hat 
but are seriously regarded only by the middle 
classes. Nothing in this or the next world, or in 
the secret places of one's own or one’s neighbor’s 
heart, may be held inviolate against discussion 
with other flappers at luncheons. Men of heart 
or character or achievement are invariably tire¬ 
some, and except at dinners where they can be 
used to sit beside the chaperone, are generally 
taboo. A flapper who happens to be burdened 
with old-school parents may not, perhaps, go to 
the theater unchaperoned; but, on the other hand, 
when the chaperone has been trotted off to bed 
later, there is no reason why one may not be 
roundly kissed over the business of cake and milk 
in the kitchen if the young man is nice about it. 
Kissing is of two kinds—kissing for kissing’s 
sake and kissing for a purpose. “When a man is 
simply too boring,” Stella explained at luncheon, 
“I let him kiss me and send him home.” 


243 


New Heaven 

Two of the debutantes had failed as flappers. 
Myrtis Bayne had tried but she was fundamen¬ 
tally too timid and incidentally too dull-witted. 
Cecilia Lee had tried too but only Hugh seemed 
to understand this and he was merely amused. 
“A landmark, Cess,” he declared, “that's what 
you are. You can’t flap an inch and every man 
in town’s in love with you. You watch—this flap¬ 
per business is being worked to death—next year 
we’ll have a new horror called the 'shy, sweet 
girl.’ ” 

During Lent when there was little else to do, 
Myrtis, following a line of least resistance and 
most allurement, began to fancy herself in love. 
Gossip had her engaged to Blaine Todd before 
Dowager Bayne had ever known enough of it to 
forestall the Tattler. It was annoying; the dow¬ 
ager had earned a rest and was spending it in a 
discreet affair with Colonel Dorsey when the 
paragraph appeared and Myrtis simpered con¬ 
firmation. 

There was much to be said for Blaine but the 
dowager would neither say it nor hear it. He was 
indisputably the best dancer and probably the best 
looking man in the younger set. He was a good 
conversationalist and played golf better than any 
other member of the Chevy Chase Club. With 
these four qualifications alone he could have gone 
far in Washington. But the thing that had 


244 


The Shaft in the Sky 

placed him in a class above his fellows and carried 
him to within striking distance of an eminence 
that would have entitled him to the Bayne daugh¬ 
ter and the Bayne millions, was a certain genius 
for conforming. He wore just the right clothes 
at just the right time, was cynical or enthusiastic 
about just the proper things, knew when to be 
bored, when to be rude, whom to snub, whom to 
be afraid of, what girls to think attractive, when 
to be seen with soiled linen, when to be immacu¬ 
late, what subjcets to be “up” on and what ones 
to know nothing about. It was perfect; so faith¬ 
ful he was to these vaguely defined but instantly 
recognized standards, so free of any hint of in¬ 
dividuality, that many a dowager of less impor¬ 
tance than Mrs. Bayne would have welcomed 
him to the family bosom and coffers. 

But Dowager Bayne’s snobbery was too whole- 
souled to be encompassed even by genius like 
Blaine’s. As soon as the Tattler paragraph ap¬ 
peared she moved boldly to close what seemed so 
bright a social and financial avenue to the young 
man. She knew her daughter well; no need to 
whisk her ofif to Hot Springs or Europe and hold 
Blaine up to private scorn as a fortune hunter! 
As soon as she had determined that he would not 
do (and he most assuredly would not for he 
was too “local”), she took up the matter directly 
with Myrtis, hinted at loss of social position, 


New Heaven 


245 


spoke frankly of possibilities in the diplomatic 
corps, sneered cautiously at Blaine, and warned 
of what their world would say. And Myrtis, 
loyal to the only law she knew which was the law 
of ‘‘carrying on” socially, cried a little and drop¬ 
ped him. Her sentiment had been quite sincere 
and quite weak. As for Blaine, whose only error 
lay in being an American and whose spirit was 
indomitable, he soon re-oriented himself and was 
seen everywhere with Millicent Bronson whose 
wealth and rank easily rivalled the Baynes’. 

“I suppose that young man expected me to sup¬ 
port Myrtis and himself,” Mrs. Bayne told Mrs. 
Deering, “1 wouldn’t think of Myrtis marrying 
anyone but an Englishman.” 

Everyone was learning something. Except 
Cecilia. The “most popular debutante” was as 
much a debutante in April as she had been in 
November. Since nothing made an impression 
nothing could grow tiresome. The old thrills 
were never old to Cecilia, and experience neither 
deepened nor sophisticated her. The taste for 
excitement which dominated her was as refined 
as it was insatiable; her single passion remained, 
as before, a negative one—to keep herself safe 
from whatever was boring, or ugly, or hard, or 
fundamental. The same quality that made it so 
nearly impossible for her to witness Anne’s pain 
on the night of the accident provoked her to send 


246 


The Shaft in the Sky 

Arthur from the house one night when he grew 
demonstrative over cake and milk in the kitchen. 
Both things were ugly to her—and both were, 
in a sense, fundamental. 

Arthur was sentimental flotsam now. He had 
drifted as easily from Anne to Cecilia as from 
Alice to Anne. He was neither flirt nor lover but 
merely creature of his own fancies and senses. 
Things of the senses stimulated his fancy and 
things of fancy roused his senses. The positive 
fear he invoked in Cecilia quickly ended that ro¬ 
mance and within the month gossip at debutante 
luncheons had him proposing marriage to two 
other girls in a single week. This came about 
quite naturally, from Arthur’s point of view. The 
first girl was dark-eyed, red-lipped and olive¬ 
skinned, with a physical magnetism that made 
other people seem smaller and paler when she en¬ 
tered a room. Sensitive for a long time to the 
physical qualities of this girl and still bitter with 
Cecilia’s rebuff, Arthur made warm and reckless 
love to her one afternoon in the library of her 
home. She responded tempestuously to his kisses, 
but for the word-magic he breathed along with 
them she gave only the most trite and trivial 
return. In an hour he wearied of her warmth 
and was shocked at her stupidity. When he left 
it was for her, to all appearances, a parting of 
lovers, but for him it was retreat. Three nights 


247 


New Heaven 

later, behind the bend in the stairway at Raushers, 
with a distant violin moaning the “Chanson 
d’lndn /' he was inspired to confide this story to 
another girl whose beauty was delicate and whose 
imagination and eloquence rivalled his own. 
Sympathetically she held his hand and soothed 
him with dainty speech until his story was for¬ 
gotten in a new story he told her. “Don't let me 
kiss you," he begged, “and don't let me speak of 
love. 'One word too often is profaned that I pro¬ 
fane it now.' " They parted at supper with eye- 
messages that bespoke complete understanding. 
The next morning he hated her and wanted the 
red-lipped girl again. The net result of the week 
was a poem he wrote and mailed to the red lips— 

Yesterday, 

Because the scent of some wild rose 

Was in your hair, and on your lips a magic word, 

The heavens blazed for me, 

Lighting new worlds rimmed with stars and sweet as 
dawn; 

Fancy woke, and winged a wondrous flight 

Through skies heroic-tinted, ringed with high romance; 

Music broke swooning into my heart, 

Flooding dark, long soundless deeps 
With gallant song. 

To-day, 

Because the fragrance of your hair 

Is on my coat, and on your lips the magic word 

Is crushed with my poor kiss, 

I, all mad, have hurled me deep 

Into the green and blue of dancing seas you haunt. 


248 


The Shaft in the Sky 

Upon whose coral floors I cannot breathe— 

I had forgot, mermaid, I cannot breathe! 

Because you knew a magic word 

And I was drunk with fragrance in your hair, 

Here in your sea caves I pant— 

Drowning! 

Since she could not in the least understand 
the verses, the red-lipped girl showed them to her 
bosom friend—who chanced to be the girl of the 
stairway. This was proper, for, if Arthur had 
analyzed his effort, he must have confessed that 
the “magic word” had been on the lips of the 
second girl and the “scent of some wild rose” in 
the hair of the first. 

But as for proposing marriage, luncheon gossip 
did Arthur an injustice. Such a thing never oc¬ 
curred to him; it was inartistic and smacked of the 
commercial and businesslike. In fact he associ¬ 
ated marriage so unfailingly with the financial 
capacity to conduct an establishment that at this 
time especially it would have been remote from 
his mind. The common stock in Western Leasing 
which he and Gilchrist had acquired through the 
deal with Mr. Cox had depreciated to a fourth its 
par value and was still falling in spite of the fact 
that the preferred stock which the organizers held 
remained well above par. 

Gilchrist had withdrawn altogether from 
Arthur's world. Most of his time was given to 
the Industrial Relations Commission on whose 


New Heaven 


249 


board he was serving without pay pending Senate 
action on his nomination. Convinced that con¬ 
firmation was impossible so long as the White in¬ 
terests opposed, he had gone to see George White 
the day he returned from the mountains, only to 
be informed that the coal baron was out of town. 
A week later he called again and was informed 
that Mr. White “could see no basis or need for 
an interview.” Whereupon Gilchrist had deter¬ 
mined that not “all the king’s horses and all the 
king’s men” should prevent an ultimate interview. 
For three weeks he stuck to his work on the Com¬ 
mission and then called again. To his surprise he 
was received at once. 

“I’m sorry if I intrude, Mr. White,” he began, 
“but I want this Commissionership—want it so 
badly I’m willing to come here and ask why you 
won’t let me have it.” 

Mr. White’s stare was perfectly unintelligible, 
as usual. “Have no sympathy with the Commis¬ 
sion,” he grunted, “was opposed to it from the 
beginning.” 

“You mean you were opposed to me?” 

A remote annoyance colored the stare. “You 
guessed it young man, I was opposed to you and 
I am still opposed to you.” 

“Well, I have come to ask why.” 

The stare was angry now. “All right, Ill 
answer that. I believe you’re running with a lot 


250 The Shaft in the Sky 

of damn fools who want to ruin the business and 
disrupt the government of this country. I not 
only believe it, I know it, because I’ve got the 
goods on you!” 

Gilchrist felt his own temper rising. “Got the 
goods!” he repeated hotly, “Come now, Mr. 
White, accuse me of something. Don’t talk of 
getting the goods as if this were a criminal pro¬ 
ceeding. What are you implying?” 

“That you’re hand in glove with McLanahan 
and that communist bunch at the mines—that’s 
what I’m implying.” The vein on Mr. White’s 
left temple was pumping hard, “I’m implying that 
all the time you were running for Congress—and 
talking straight in public—you were thick as hell 
with McLanahan. You went to see him in Bloody 
Hollow and then had him here to see you—I know 
it because my man watched you. I’m implying 
that I’ll stand for liberals, progressives, labor 
sympathizers and all the rest of this modern 
balderdash, but I won’t put .up with a damned 
bolshevist!” 

The younger man was too surprised to be 
angry now. He forced himself to speak quietly. 

“Look here, Mr. White, I don’t want your sup¬ 
port on any misunderstanding of my position 
and I don’t want you to oppose me on any mis¬ 
understanding either. We disagree pretty 
thoroughly, I know, on many things—from labor 


New Heaven 


251 


to the League. But we both stand for law and 
order and we both happen to want the Democratic 
Party in power. If this doesn’t entitle me to your 
support, then don’t give it to me. As for this 
ridiculous bolshevist business, my whole relation¬ 
ship with McLanahan is a personal one and I have 
no more sympathy or association with his prin¬ 
ciples than you have. I did go to his house and he 
has called on me here when he came over to see 
his daughter. He’s a friend of a very interesting 

foreigner I-” Realizing that the story of 

Pierre would be an involved one, he cut himself 
short. “—you’ll have to take my word for it that 
his doctrines are as objectionable to me as they 
are to you. Do you believe that ?” 

Mr. White seemed scarcely to have heard. 

“And what’s more,” he said, as though Gil¬ 
christ had never spoken, “I don’t care hen’s 
teeth about a man that gets women to do his work 
for him. I promised Deering’s daughter and 
John Hampton I’d talk to you—but their coming 
in here didn’t help much—you can see that.” 

At this Gilchrist began to believe either himself 
or the other totally mad- 

“Deering’s daughter? What did you say?” 

“Said it didn’t help much.” Mr. White was 
plainly sceptical of his stupefaction. 

“You mean—Miss Deering came here—and 
talked to you about this?” 




252 


The Shaft in the Shy 

Mr. White grunted and eyed the younger man 
for a few moments in a detached, impersonal way. 
Then he looked at his watch and said, almost 
pleasantly, 

“Got an engagement now. Must excuse me. 
Barrel of sense that girl has. Money too. Better 
let her run your politics.” He pushed the button 
on his desk and a secretary opened the outer door. 

Gilchrist was too bewildered now to make fur¬ 
ther inquiry or protest. He walked dazedly to 
the door as two United States Senators were 
ushered in. In the hallway the secretary came 
running after him. “You left your gloves, sir.” 


Chapter Twenty-one 

/jjhlCK DEERING again! Into every corner 
of his life Fate seemed determined to thrust 
her! The only tangible idea in his brain as he 
left the White Company offices was that he must 
see her and have her explanation. It was no 
longer of importance whether Mr. White gave his 
support or not—nothing mattered except the ex¬ 
planation ! 

At the Deering residence he learned that she 
had gone to a class and was to stop by the hospital 
afterwards to visit Anne McLanahan. Well, he 
would go to the hospital! He would not stop until 
he found her! 

He set out rapidly down Twentieth Street. 
Destiny ran to meet him; three blocks ahead he 
recognized Alice approaching with long, resolute 
strides he knew well. A straight-lined cloak she 
wore was loosened so that when the wind blew it 
aside its dark red lining caught the eye. He grew 
suddenly afraid of the excitement creeping 
through him. They had not met since the inter¬ 
view before his trip to the mountains; the memory 

of “cruel kisses” stung him now with a dangerous 

253 


254 


The Shaft in the Sky 

sort of delight. Two blocks away—and he knew 
that he was trembling, actually shaking, with a 
tortured composite of desire, anticipation, and 
fear. He thought wildly of turning aside down 
the next corner, then ached with apprehension of 
really doing it and missing her. One block away, 
and he was resolutely recalling all the ruin and 
disillusion she meant, frantically fixing his deter¬ 
mination to know what new callousness or vanity 
had brought her to visit White. Half a block 
now—she had recognized him and halted. He 
saw her pass a hand swiftly across her forehead 
—perplexity or to rearrange her hair against the 
March wind? An altogether absurd fancy seized 
him; that gesture recalled a'picture he and Hugh 
had seen in a French gallery, a woman in bright 
armour with hand raised to close a visor that glit¬ 
tered in the sun. A battle figure! Joan of Arc! 

Burlesque, surely! But he remembered the 
gesture. 

“Hello, this is queer,” she hailed first, “I was 
just thinking of you.” 

He caught the slight strain in her voice and, 
was relieved to find himself quite calm. “Tve just 
come from your house,” he said, “I had a talk 
with George White to-day.” 

“George White!” she exclaimed, and blushed. 

“I’ll walk along with you?” 

She nodded uneasily. “I talked to him myself 


New Heaven 255 

the other day,” she said. “He’s an old friend of 
dad’s. I—we spoke of you.” 

He made no reply. She was thinking rapidly, 
altogether unprepared for this situation. What 
if he learned the truth—all of it from the first 
maneuver with Mr. White at her mother’s dinner 
to the recent one? Would he believe in her as 
good angel or as conspirator either? It was im¬ 
possible ; she loathed both roles! He must never 
know the truth, any of it! It would never do to 
have his gratitude now! 

Yet she could see that Mr. White had told him 
of her visit. 

“I wanted to talk with him about Anne.” Con¬ 
fidence returned now that she began to know her 
course, “she must be kept away from her father’s 
influence. He seemed to have you all mixed up 
with McLanahan and the people down there. 
Which I thought rather absurd.” 

“Of course,” said Gilchrist. 

The faint color of truth in her explanation en¬ 
abled her to be convincing- 

“It was no concern of mine,” she continued 
coldly, “but when he spoke of it I told him I 
thought you had enough intelligence ta see 
through.a lot of emotional creatures like those.” 

They walked on in silence—deliberate on her 
part. To Gilchrist there seemed nothing ta say, 
pitifully nothing. Could he not sense her dislike! 



256 


The Shaft in the Sky 

Or total indifference anyhow! And for his own 
part, except for a certain tumult of his blood, what 
could such a woman mean to him! Her lips were 
dry with wind-burn—he had kissed them, but 
that was a thing he had sworn to forget—he must 
forget—if they were ever to be humanly friends! 
Friends? Why should they be friends? 

“Has he withdrawn his opposition ?” The 
strain in her voice escaped him this time. 

“Quite the contrary/’ he said carelessly, “He 
has a new grudge now—I send women to him to 
do my lobbying.” 

“What women? Oh!” It was Alice’s turn now 
to feel tragedy. Then she had made a mess of it! 
A complete mess! Something told her that the 
thing she had done at her mother’s dinner in 
October would never be undone! 

“Well—that’s that,” she said bravely, almost 
under her breath. 

He thought her indifferent. 

“Suppose it’s about time to take your advice 
and leave my fellow-man alone,” he said, “after 
all, one must make a living.” 

She was silent. “However, I shall give myself 
the satisfaction of losing this fight at the finish— 
not in the middle. After that, I’ll try something 
else—any fool can make a living.” She should 
not gloat over him! 

“Surely,” she agreed, to his surprise, “hold on 


New Heaven 


257 


to your Western Leasing stock, Gilchrist. Dad 
has some and he says it will be paying splendidly 
in six months—it's going back up.” 

“How did you know I-” he began. 

“Arthur told me—he has some too, hasn’t he?” 

“Well, I sold mine at the market last week. 
I’m not being paid for my present services to 
humanity on the Commission, you know.” 

“Sold it! Oh, Gilchrist—you sold it?” 

“Your father may be right—but as a matter 
of fact I had to have the money.” 

Remorse was not in Alice but she could hate a 
bad job. And this one was bad—as bad as the 
other. She had made a mess of both! And she 
had been so sure! Good angel indeed! She was 
a fool, an incompetent fool, rushing in where 
angels wouldn’t tread! Now she loathed the con¬ 
ceit in herself that had made her believe from 
the very begining in her power to control this 
man’s destiny. How little she knew after all, how 
pitifully equipped for the things she had at¬ 
tempted ! Anger at herself whipped the blood to 
her cheeks and trembled on her lips. She would 
tell him everything and be done with it all—let 
him hate her as he never had before! 

She turned passionately to him but something 
in the thin set of his jaw halted her. What hu¬ 
miliation for him if she told all! His looks belied 
the cynicism of his speech; after all he was still 




258 


The Shaft in the Sky 

resolute, still a believer! If her meddlesomeness 
had lost him his inheritance and threatened to 
lose him his career, it should at least not lose him 
his soul! Let him go on to his “defeat at the 
finish”—he should keep that soul—and her heart 
too if he could care! If he could care! That 
must wait! 

“Anne’s going to get well,” she said, “did you 
hear? Dr. Morton says the operation is a com¬ 
plete success. I took Mrs. Durand to see her 
yesterday and she invited Anne to Essex as soon 
as she’s able to make the trip. She’s a ripping 
little girl, I say.” 

“Why do you like her?” In the question there 
was criticism not of Anne but of Alice. 

She pondered. “I suppose it’s because she’s 
everything I’m not,” she said humbly, “for in¬ 
stance, she believes in things.” 

“While you-?” He was interested, against 

his will. 

“I ? Oh, I’m only beginning to want to believe.” 

“In what?” 

“I don’t know.” She spoke so earnestly he 
turned to stare at her. Again he began to think 
that after all he knew very little of the real Alice. 
Queer he had never troubled to search for her in 
all their unhappy acquaintance! 

“Anything will do, I suppose,” she continued 
lightly. “Anne believes in the whole world and 



259 


New Heaven 

particularly in Hugh. Hugh believes in his own 
imagination. Cess believes in the little part of 
the world she knows about, providing the rest of 
the world is kept out. Of course I belong to that 
little part too but I can’t believe in it. Even 
Arthur believes—in something he thinks of as ro¬ 
mance. Lots of people believe in God. And you 
and Senator Calhoun believe in ideas, don’t you? 
Gilchrist, it’s hard for a woman to believe in ideas 
—they’re too abstract.” 

Inexplicable woman! He decided that he did 
not know her at all. And once he had thought 
he knew her bitterly well! Now, for the first time 
in his life he began to believe her splendidly worth 
knowing. If he could forget the other thing, 
control this tumult of his senses, what a friend 
and inspiration he might make of her! 

They had reached her door. 

“I’d like to believe—in you, Alice,” he said 
slowly as if he had just reached that conclusion 
and was surprised at it. 

“Don’t,” she smiled, and gave him the tips of 
her fingers and was gone. 

But when the door had closed on him she stood 
before the tall mirror in the hallway and spoke 
earnestly to her reflection there. 

“Liar! Liar! You do believe. You believe in 
Gilchrist Sturtevant. And in yourself!” 

Then, to her own amazement, she wept. 



Chapter Twenty-two 


/^HERRY blossom time in Washington. The 
trim foreign trees line Potomac Basin with 
delicate color suggestive half of austere winter 
passed and half of riotous spring to come. The 
drama of retreating cold and advancing warmth, 
the stir of old memories and coming events, are 
in these cherry blooms of early spring. At night 
the pink is ghostly; the placid Basin is ringed 
with white and over its eastern rim, bathed in 
light from invisible sources, the Monument 
towers like a mighty constellation—an exalted 
finger pointing heavenward. 

On the basin’s edge are a man and a woman, 
small pieces in black and white lodged against 
the cosmic panorama, impudently assailing the 
eternal riddles. 

“To scorn the half-gods,” the man was saying, 
“that’s the key to it all. To accept from life only 
the keenest things and to give in return the best 
of one’s self, to strike high and win or lose splen¬ 
didly, to refuse all compromise with what is medi¬ 
ocre or humdrum—it may sound absurd, Alice, 

260 


261 


New Heaven 

but, in our own ways, I believe both of us have 
tried to do this from the very beginning.” 

“And failed?” The woman’s voice was low. 

“Not yet, I think. It’s only that we have been 
too lazy or too ignorant to make of life what we’ve 
pretended it was. I’ve been reading a book of 
Hugh’s called “Peer Gynt.” Peer pretended a 
certain Troll-King’s daughter was beautiful be¬ 
cause he wanted something beautiful and she was 
what he got.” 

“Wasn’t she?” 

“Homely beyond words. Or her people were— 
I forget. Anyhow there were beautiful things 
to be found if he had looked for them and insisted 
on them and refused anything else.” 

In the light breeze that came in to them from 
the water was a faint smell of the sea. The 
searchlight left the Monument to sweep the skies 
and return. 

“I think it was harder for you than for me,” 
he continued, “more than almost anyone you 
wanted your life to be keen—and tried to make it 
like that in an atmosphere where nothing is keen 
or full or complete. You failed, of course, but 
you made believe, you stuck to that atmosphere, 
and pretended it was all you wanted it to be.” 

She forgave him the egotism that now left 
himself out of the analysis. What did it matter! 


262 The Shaft in the Sky 

This breeze—that light on the Monument! This 
man! 

“—You played the only game in sight. Played 
it harder than anyone else—you would always do 
that, wouldn’t you!” 

“It was a great game, while it lasted.” 

A motor-car fled by on the road across the 
Basin, its yellow eyes intent. 

“My candle burns at both ends, 

It will not last the night, 

But oh my foes and ah my friends— 

It gives a lovely light!” 

she quoted lazily. “Do you know that, Gilchrist?” 

“No. It was a rotten game just because it 
wouldn’t last. Youth doesn’t exist in the quanti¬ 
ties your world demands. Excitement is a drug 
and the effect is less with each taking until finally 
there’s no more power in it. A little more and 
you would be old. Play, play, play—until you’re 
exhausted for good, until there’s neither laughter 
nor tears left and your soul is too anemic for hate 
or love or any sort of keenness.” 

“But what would you suggest?” 

“It’s trite to say it, but life really must include 
along with the measure of play a measure of 
work, a measure of effort, of purpose. The world 
is so big outside the little corner in which a society 
woman lives.” 

“But where are these 'measures’ kept, Gil- 




New Heaven 


263 


christ?” Alice spoke impatiently; she suspected 
him of generalizing. And this maddening avoid¬ 
ance of the personal—was their association al¬ 
ways to be only mental! He was a man of wood, 
with wooden speeches and a wooden heart! Well, 
let him have his own way, in his own time! Some 
cherry blossoms fell into her lap from the tree 
overhead. 

“That isn’t so important,” he said, “you might 
become a Joan of Arc. Or domestic—an ‘Alice- 
sit-by-the-fire.’ Or an interior decorator.” 

“Heavens! Not an interior decorator, old top. 
Every girl who ever wanted to do anything went 
in for interior decorating, I think.” 

“It’s the values you give things—not what you 
do. You’re educated all wrong. In these finish¬ 
ing schools every ideal is a fashionable one and 
knowledge is only a thing to show. Real educa¬ 
tion puts character level with knowledge and 
makes knowledge its own justification, not a rib¬ 
bon on the sleeve. From real education comes a 
pleasure in ideas and an enthusiasm for self- 
expression and service.” 

He was too deep in his theory to be aware that 
they were sitting very close together. But when 
his hand dropped nervously and by accident found 
hers beneath it his blood suddenly tingled like 
mad at fthe touch and he pressed the hand con¬ 
vulsively. In an instant he had forgotten his 


264 


The Shaft in the Sky 

theme and was trembling as he remembered trem¬ 
bling a month before when he saw her coming to 
meet him along Twentieth Street. “The grief of 
cruel kisses!” He released her hand—that sort 
of thing must never happen again if his respect 
for their new relationship was to stand! 

“I think it will have to be Joan of Arc,” she 
was saying lightly, “I loathe interior decorators.: 
And I’m stupid by a fire.” 

Joan of Arc! He remembered the woman in 
armour with hand raised to a gleaming visor— 
and Alice coming to meet him down the street! 

“Another age, other circumstances, and Alice 
Deering might have been a Maid of Orleans,” 
he said and instantly wished the words unsaid; 
they were too sentimental and unqualified. 

“There are other things, my dear,” she replied, 
a little self-conscious as “Joan,” “now that you’ve 
settled the society girl. What about the problem 
of the ambitious young man and his well-known 
shortcomings with the other sex? Speak of fhat 
—for the growing mind!” 

“Why I--” 

“I can do it myself—wait! It’s the same thing. 
Play! If women of my class need to play less, 
men of your type need to play more, don’t you 
think? The worth-while men who do the big 
things—most of them never learn how to play. 
And it’s quite important—they should learn, I 



265 


New Heaven 

don’t know why but I’m sure of it. The men who 
can play—really delightfully—are generally the 
worthless ones. The egotism of it! You ‘great 
young men’—they call you that, Gilchrist—can’t 
you ever be children, couldn’t you be foolish now 
and then? Some of you can anyhow. Did you 
ever see William Gibbs McAdoo and his wife at 
a dance romping like infants together? And 
Hugh—he’s ideal, I think. Calls it being a 
Gascon and it doesn’t make him a bit less notable, 
does it!” 

“Not a bit,” said Gilchrist loyally, “Hugh’s a 
wonder.” 

He was silent. No, she decided, whether he 
agreed or not, Gilchrist could never, never learn 
to play! Well, she preferred him as he was! For 
once she felt infinitely older than this earnest, 
passionate man at her side. 

Mist over the water divided the Monument 
from its base and seemed to push it further 
heavenward. She wished that Gilchrist would 
hold her hand. How like the two of them, she 
thought, that in this panorama of splendor and 
night he should think only of “abstractions” and 
she only of him and of herself! 

“Help me up—we must go,” she whispered. 
He scrambled to his feet and she held both arms 
to him, starlight in her face, dew on her lips. He 
lifted her courteously, released her neither too 



266 


The Shaft in the Sky 

quickly nor too slowly. At elbow length these 
two cosmic and not a little comic actors walked 
back to Alice’s red Stutz parked by the road under 
the ghostly cherry blossoms. 


Chapter Twenty-three 


y^HE Irish/’ said Hugh, fumbling in his 
pockets for a match, “were never meant to 
be a nation. The good Lord-” 


“There you go,” Alice interrupted, “the third 
time in half an hour you’ve been spokesman for 
the 'good Lord’. Allah is mighty and Hugh Coth¬ 
ran is his prophet!” 

“But he hadn’t finished, Miss Deering,” Anne 
protested from her invalid chair. 

“And there you go, little Victorian. Didn’t I 
tell you not to call me Miss Deering?” 

“The good Lord,” Hugh resumed, attempting 
rings with his cigar smoke and failing, “didn’t 
mean either the Irish or the Jews to be a nation. 
They are meant for salt and pepper to be 
sprinkled everywhere. Irish for snap and fight; 
Jews for imagination and vitality. But a nation 
all salt or all pepper—impossible!” 

“Right, Sir Oracle,” said Alice and put her feet 
on the banister. “There are too many nations 
already—that’s the whole trouble. But dashes 
of salt and pepper over the international chop 

267 



268 


The Shaft in the Sky 

suey from your good Lord’s crullers—that’s 
splendid! I’m an Internationalist.” 

“Oh—you’re an internationalist?” Hugh made 
a mental note, and smiled. 

“Gilchrist is one, too.” Anne ventured, press¬ 
ing Hugh’s hand which held hers. Unconsciously 
she had put Hugh’s two and two together, and 
Alice went a faint red under cover of the dark¬ 
ness which had settled over the Durand veranda 
within the half-hour. 

“He may be an anarchist if the all-wise Senate 
didn’t confirm his nomination to-day,” she as¬ 
serted stoutly, “it’s the last chance.” 

It was late in June. A modest breeze, slightly 
intoxicated with the scent of the mountains, 
sauntered across the banister. Immediately, as 
if blown of the same breeze, a tip of the moon ap¬ 
peared over the dark range in the east. 

“Ah, speaking of internationalists,” said Hugh, 
blowing lazy smoke at the newcomer, “enter the 
international gallery-player!” 

“He thinks the stars are more splendid than 
the moon,” Anne explained to Alice, “he says the 
moon is undignified but the stars-” 

“-Perfect rot!” said Alice. “Hugh’s a sen¬ 

timentalist, whatever that is. Don’t you believe 
him. Did you walk some to-day?” 

“Twice the length of the piazza by myself. And 
I could have done it again if Hugh-” 





269 


New Heaven 

“When I come up next week you’ll be playing 
hop scotch on both feet,” said Hugh, “Dr. Morton 
says you can walk as far as the next man in a 
month and that’s pretty darned far.” 

The lights of the Durand Hudson swept the 
veranda as the car rounded the corner with Henry 
and his father. 

“Whatter y’know, Hugh,” Henry called, rum 
ning up the steps, “McAdoo leads on the thirty- 
second—four twenty-one to three ninety-one for 
Cox to a hundred and seventy-six for Palmer. 
That’s the last wire down at the village!” 

“Clap me on the back,” said Hugh, “it must be 
you’re a McAdoo man!” 

“You said it!” Henry clapped him with such 
vigor that Anne winced, “So is Dad and he’s all 
excited about it!” 

Mr. Durand was undoubtedly excited. “We 
wired good wishes to Gilchrist and the Senator 
but I doubt if telegrams are delivered on the con¬ 
vention floor,” he explained hurriedly, fanning 
himself with an afternoon paper. “They must 
have chafed at being obliged to vote for Palmer 
throughout—vicious, this unit rule. The break 
should come soon now.” 

“If the President sends a message-” Alice 

mused. 

“He won’t.” The old statesman was unusually 
communicative. “It’s his Presbyterianism—I be- 



270 


The Shaft in the Sky 

lieve he feels himself in the care of predestination. 
Justified too—Destiny nominated him at Balti¬ 
more in 1912 after he had ordered McCoombs to 
withdraw his name. Same thing in 1916—after 
Hughes had been President for a night. Destiny 
placed him at the helm in the greatest of wars, 
and he's probably waiting quietly now for Destiny 
to accomplish his League of Nations through a 
Democratic platform and candidate energetically 
loyal to it." 

“Dinner,” said Mrs. Durand, at the veranda 
door. “Are you all at politics again?” 

“All except Anne, Aunt Jane,” Alice was smil¬ 
ing at the invalid's lost expression, “she's looking 
at the moon. She says Hugh thinks the stars-” 

“Oh shut up, Buccaneer,” said Hugh, “take 
your feet down and come to dinner—didn't you 
hear Mrs. Durand?” 

Henry gave a long whistle. “Did you see this, 
Hugh?” he said, reading the paper. “Too bad 
but I must say I thought it would happen.” 

“What is it?” 

“Rotten politicians, Senator Calhoun and Gil¬ 
christ !” He shook his head sagely. 

“Well, what is it?” 

“Listen—from Washington. ‘The Senate to¬ 
day refused to confirm the nomination of Gil¬ 
christ B. Sturtevant for the vacancy on the In¬ 
dustrial Relations Commission. Inasmuch as this 




271 


New Heaven 

is the third time his nomination has been rejected 
it was announced from the White House that the 
President will send a new name to the Senate at 
an early date.’ ” 

Mrs. Durand was essentially domestic. To her 
this announcement, although important, held no 
more than an equal place with the fact that dinner 
was waiting. ‘‘Too bad” she murmured, “poor 
Gilchrist seems unfortunate in these things.” 

“He’s unfortunate in the enemies he makes,” 
said Mr. Durand. 

“He’s unfortunately honest,” Hugh said bitter¬ 
ly, aching for his friend. 

Alice’s feet had slipped from the banister and 
she was holding one hand tightly with the other 
in her lap. 

“Well, that’s that!” she said casually. Henry 
thought her callous. And Anne wondered if she 
were. 

After dinner the party played a not very intel¬ 
lectual game called “adjectives”—it was a game 
they had always played at the Durands as long as 
Alice could remember. When it came her turn 
to guess the authors of the respective adjectives 
applied to herself she guessed that it was Mr. 
Durand who had called her “sympathetic,” Mrs. 
Durand who had called her “temperamental,” 
Anne “entertaining,” Henry “impossible” and 
Hugh “quite possible.” She won the prize, which 


272 


The Shaft in the Sky 

was the right to demand a “stunt” from any other 
in the party. The “stunt” she asked was a song 
from Anne. 

Anne liked being asked to sing. Her voice was 
clear and sweet and not spoiled with any sort of 
training. While the others listened from the ver¬ 
anda and Mrs. Durand played the accompaniment, 
she sang the song Hugh liked best—an adaptation 
of Walter de la Mare’s poem- 

“The burning fire shakes in the night, 

On high her silver candles gleam, 

With far-flung arms enflamed with light 
The trees are lost in dream. 

Come in thy beauty, ’tis my love, 

Lost in far-wandering desire, 

Hath in the darkling deep above, 

Set stars and kindled fire.” 

And Alice, who could never carry or compre¬ 
hend a tune, loved it. Loved it for the words, for 
the last lines. Hours later, long after Hugh had 
left for his train back to Washington and the 
others had gone to bed, she sat remembering those 
lines and loving them. The moon was gone but 
the stars and the breeze remained—she sat on the 
banister and reached passionate, awkward arms 
to them. 


— lost in far-wandering desire, 
Hath in the darkling deep above, 
Set stars and kindled fire.” 



New Heaven 


273 


“If I can have done that,” she said, and must 
have been addressing Mrs. Durand’s collie dozing 
beside her for no one else was present, “nothing 
else matters—dear!” 

The collie thumped his tail on the floor and 
sniffed. She shook her head in sudden exaspera¬ 
tion. 

“Wooden man,” she said, “you perfectly 
wooden man!” 


Chapter Twenty-four 


/GILCHRIST and Senator Calhoun were de- 
cidedly “McAdoo men” and as such had 
their full share of the excitement at San Fran¬ 
cisco. When McAdoo’s name was placed in 
nomination Gilchrist exchanged hot words and 
finally blows with the holder of his state banner 
before he was permitted to swing it into the 
McAdoo parade coursing the convention floor. 
On another occasion at Senator Calhoun’s hotel 
when an intoxicated and six-foot Cox man ap¬ 
plied an unpardonable epithet to Woodrow 
Wilson, the Senator promptly broke his cane over 
the man’s shoulder and was at point of receiving 
the full force of his towering victim’s wrath when 
Gilchrist, entering the lobby at just the right 
moment, leaped and crawled over intervening 
shoulders to drop his own six-footedness between 
the “little giant” and his opponent. “I fight Sena¬ 
tor Calhoun’s battles,” he shouted dramatically, 
and the Cox man, dazed at the rapid succession 
of events and impressed at learning his cyclonic 

if diminutive assailant was the famed Senatorial 

274 


New Heaven 275 

orator and pet, mumbled some incoherent defi¬ 
ance and made off through the crowd. 

Both men believed that the fate of Wilson and 
of the League hung upon the nomination of Mc- 
Adoo. Just before the stampede that nominated 
Governor Cox, Gilchrist received telegraphic re¬ 
port of the Senate’s final refusal to confirm his 
own nomination. The two blows came almost 
simultaneously therefore and at first his disap¬ 
pointment was too shocking to be articulate. He 
dared not formulate it even to himself, fearing 
that vast decadence of spirit that had come over 
him in Washington in the winter. He could not 
face the McAdoo “post-mortems” they would be 
holding at the hotel, and passed the greater part 
of the night walking the streets—to return at 
early morning as from Gethsemane itself with 
pale cheeks and bitter eyes, wondering if there 
would be a third party. He was positive that no 
promise remained in either of the old parties. 

In the afternoon he and the Senator began the 
long trip east, with scornful memories of the en¬ 
thusiasm with which they had arrived in San 
Francisco ten days before. The Senator was 
leaving at Chicago, not to return to Washington 
until late in the summer. Gilchrist rather looked 
forward to Chicago for this reason; he wanted 
to be alone. The only human being he cared to 
see just now was Hugh. Hugh would laugh at 


276 


The Shaft in the Sky 

# 

him, bring him down to earth, fill him with the 
pleasant littlenesses of life. He wanted to be 
laughed at, needed to be! He wired Hugh the 
time of his arrival at Washington. 

But Hugh would not have laughed—not at this 
moment. Gilchrist’s telegram reached him at a 
cross-roads in his own life. He could never have 
been more serious than on this particular morning 
as he threaded in and out of the early morning 
crowds on Pennsylvania Avenue. He loved 
crowds. The eternal flow of new faces fascin¬ 
ated him. Also he could think well in them, better 
than anywhere else, and just now he wanted 
badly to think something out. He must orient 
himself—and he chose Pennsylvania Avenue. Of 
course he never really thought anything out; he 
merely made decisions. Even now when there 
was every need for hard thinking, his mind was 
jumping from one mental picture to another and 
arriving at wholly unrelated positions. In the 
first place there was the picture of a telephone 
number—“North nine nine nine!” Funny how 
that number stuck! Euphonious—three nines! 
A good long foolish talk with Cess would help 
any man’s soul! Then another jump and another 
picture. Poor old Gik—what a mess! By George, 
I’ll vote Republican this year! Largely, the ideals 
are with the Democrats, the efficiency with the 


277 


New Heaven 

Republicans! But a damnable pass now—no 
ideals or liberalism anywhere! Yes, Fm a lib¬ 
eral! Well, at least the Republicans will bring 
in a lot of able chaps—knit the old government 
together again—run it well too! Slow things up, 
of course—means going back a bit! Maybe they 
need slowing—all speed mad—look at our music 
—horrible jazz—of course the French couldn’t 
understand it and that French girl couldn’t dance 
it—so much speed’s inartistic! There's a nation 
—the French have the art of living—we haven’t! 
Yes, best to vote Republican—good personality 
Harding’s! Between a Republican politician and 
a Democratic politician always take the Repub¬ 
lican! I’m a liberal though—vote for progress 
before efficiency whenever there’s a chance! 
True, yes, art and efficiency always with the con¬ 
servatives. Well, we settled in favor of in¬ 
efficiency and ugliness when we decided to be a 
republic and not a monarchy! Better vote Re¬ 
publican this time though! 

North nine nine nine! Politics was easy but 
this other thing! Marriage! He was so near he 
could see the white of the institution’s eye and 
was horrified. Good God! he didn’t want to be 
married! To be one of those creatures always 
looking for a house or apartment to rent—bring¬ 
ing home bundles—putting the cat out at night— 
living by the clock—wearing overshoes—oh 


278 


The Shaft in the Sky 

Lord! To be substantial and reliable, use sound 
judgment, provide for the future, be responsible 
for certain other humans! All the Gascon in him 
rebelled. Married, he felt somehow he could 
never again walk the streets in just this manner 
—never thrill with the possibility of joining a 
gypsy lot with any of these strange passing faces 
and racing to the furtherest corners of the world 
—never feel High Romance lurking just around 
the next block! Nonsense, of course! He knew 
there was no substance in these vague dreams. 
Married or not he would never give himself to 
such an existence of thoughtless adventure! And 
nothing could ever fill his sky as Anne did—God 
bless her wonderful heart! But that wasn’t it! 
He didn’t want to do any of these errant things- 
only to feel that they lay within his power, his 
right! To feel at liberty to go utterly to the dogs 
—and not to go; to feel Life a jingling coin in 
his pocket that he might spend anywhere, a brim¬ 
ming cup that was his to sip—or drain—or spill! 
Marriage, and the coin was placed, the cup 
quaffed for better or worse, life ordered and re¬ 
quiring prevision! 

As much as Gilchrist loved order, plan, and or¬ 
ganization, Hugh hated them. They were names 
for death itself! His was the journalist’s soul 
—life was a thing of moments, not years. Ah, 
with all his heart now he was sorry the war was 


New Heaven 


279 


over! How keen those days had been when the 
future was all uncertain and to-morrow might be 
the end! How lustily he had lived each hour be¬ 
cause it might be the last. His mind’s eye saw 
a valiant little destroyer tossing the English chan¬ 
nel, decks raw with wind and sea, nosing treach¬ 
erous mine-fields, aggressive to the slinking out¬ 
line of the submarine! How he had loved his 
fellow-man on that boat! how quick his faculties, 
how bright his eye, what splendid thoughts! 

But Anne—! No! Unreasonably no! Why, 
she had brought back that very keenness! After 
the war, before she came, how infinitely dull it 
had all been! How desperately he had wanted to 
keep the heroic, the vital, in things and how 
pitifully Washington had been rotting them for 
him! Damn this city! There was a deadly 
sweetness about it—tropical languor! All right 
for Gik, it was his battleground, there were 
countless calls to arms here for him. But not for 
himself—it was decay. Couldn’t feel things here 
or believe in any one else’s feeling—it was all so 
pleasant and easy! The Potomac was so dam¬ 
nably placid! He thought of the Hudson sweep¬ 
ing strongly by rugged Palisades at New York* 
There was a river! Yes, he must get out of 
Washington! But could he—he loved it so! 

Except that Anne—yes, he could leave it with 
her! Jove, how blind—the new sky, the keen 



280 


The Shaft in the Sky 

•sky, why Anne could give him just that! Mar¬ 
riage, he would always hate abstractly, yes, but 
marriage-to-Anne was something else! It was 
the solution! That offer of Gwathmey’s little 
paper out in Montana—he could accept that. Real 
people there—rugged, whole-hearted diving—he 
and Anne! 

He turned in at the Post Building and wrote 
her twelve pages—buoyant, impossible pages. 
Then lunched and wrote her ten more of nonsense 
and love. At night he telegraphed her, about 
nothing. 

Once Hugh had loved a woman older than 
himself—in initiative and years—and her un¬ 
conscious mothering had become intolerable to 
his sense of manliness. Later there had been an¬ 
other, his peer in self-reliance and information, 
from whom a strange sort of mutual jealousy had 
parted him in the end. Of all men he needed 
what Anne gave him—the picture of himself as 
protector and provider. Against the quixotic 
spirit that made him light about life and over- 
generous in the bargains he drove with it, he 
needed a spirit like hers which took life earnestly 
and with so much of faith. A Gascon may trifle 
all his days away but he stands ready always to 
“run himself gallantly to death for a cause worth 
the running.” And to one Gascon Anne McLan- 
ahan was worth the running. 



281 


New Heaven 

The return special from San Francisco was 
crowded; Gilchrist and the Senator passed an un¬ 
comfortable two days before reaching Chicago. 
Just now they irritated each other. If only Sen¬ 
ator Calhoun wouldn’t be so confoundedly elo¬ 
quent, Gilchrist thought! It was callous—this 
oratory in the face of sober misfortune! To the 
younger man eloquence was simply an art or a 
weapon, and he could never understand that to 
the Senator it was second nature and a thing of 
the blood. “Gentlemen,” he announced to Gil¬ 
christ and Congressman Jones on the observation 
platform one afternoon, “Armageddon was lost 
when the Democratic Party chose James M. Cox 
to bear its standard. The League is dead! Inter¬ 
nationalism is dead! The dreams for which this 
country gave its blood are dead! The final battle 
of Good and Evil has gone to the forces of Evil. 
The United States has turned its back on mani¬ 
fest destiny and is hurrying sordidly away from 
internationalism to a greater and more grasping 

nationalism-” (here he tossed his head after 

his best platform manner) “that being the con¬ 
dition of things, I, for one, shall not thrust my 
head in the sand. If the cry is to be nationalism I 
shall not be found wanting. Henceforth I stand 
for a protective tariff, compulsory military train¬ 
ing, strict immigration laws—everything that 



282 


The Shaft in the Sky 

makes a nation sufficient unto itself, everything 

that equips for the next war, everything-” 

“Not at all, Senator,” Gilchrist interrupted, 
“I’ve changed my mind on that since we left 
San Francisco. Perhaps you’re right about 
the League; the sort we wanted is dead as Hector. 
Admit that—and say only the domestic issues are 
left. But they are vital too and Cox is sound on 
them. He’s a progressive and a good administra¬ 
tor and I’m going to work for him. There’s 
nothing against Harding, the man—he’s clean, 
able, and honorable—surely. But in the long run 
the Democratic Party is the party of progress 
and I’m willing to swallow a little bitterness for 
the preservation of that party. I think you’re 
wrong too about this Armageddon business. 
Truth is, Senator, there is no Armageddon in the 
sense of a final battle and there’s where we’ve 
gone wrong. I thought the war was the final 
battle and you thought the League fight was; as 
a matter of fact these were only skirmishes in a 
campaign that never ends. After you and I and 
our grandchildren are all dead it will still be going 
on. I’ve decided to stay in politics and keep my 
record clean by voting Democrat and losing an¬ 
other skirmish. But I won’t make the mistake 
again of believing the whole riddle of the uni¬ 
verse is mixed up in any single scrap. No, there 
is no Armageddon!” 



283 


New Heaven 

The Senator looked pained at these last words, 

and confused. “On the contrary-” he began, 

and halted. To have the final word always and 
to counter every move of an opponent was a life¬ 
long habit not easily relinquished. Perhaps to 
Gilchrist alone of all the world could he confess 
error, and to him only tacitly. 

“Well/’ he shifted, pathetically half-serious, 
“there must be an Armageddon because I’m lec¬ 
turing on it this summer. Its all contracted for.” 
After which rear-guard volley he withdrew to 
the smoking room with a small and mystically un¬ 
earthed volume of “The Three Musketeers.” 

When he left the train at Chicago Gilchrist 
missed him though and realized how companion¬ 
able he had been during these memorable ten days. 
How utterly lovable and great-hearted the man 
was! Every one felt older than the Senator; the 
world mothered and loved the boy in him as it 
applauded and admired the orator! 

“Telegram for Mister Sturneman!” 

“Here, boy—is that Sturtevant?” The mes¬ 
senger looked at his envelope. “Sturtevant, yes- 
sir, that’s what I said.” 

“The devil you did.” Gilchrist handed him a 
coin. 

Good old Hugh, he thought! Not half as hard 
hit as he thinks I am! Two days earlier Gilchrist 
would have cherished a telegram from Hugh 



284 


The Shaft in the Shy 

more sentimentally than one from any woman; 
but now he felt a certain patronage for his friend 
as though Hugh and not himself had called for 
help. Good old Hugh! 

He tore open the yellow envelope and read; 
‘‘Father and I motoring Elizabethtown to Wash¬ 
ington. Arrive Cumberland an hour before your 
train. Get off and drive down with us. Alice. ,, 


Chapter Twenty-jive 


F # *0 reach Cumberland from Washington be- 
fore noon meant getting up at four-thirty. 
By eight Alice was well on the way, with the 
Stutz purring along perfectly. It would have to 
go like that, she thought, to reach Cumberland 
in time! 

But this was her day! There could be no mis¬ 
hap ; there simply shouldn’t! Mrs. Deering was 
at White Sulphur and her father wouldn’t miss 
her until night. Shades of all the lovely June 
days in history, smile on this day! 

Twenty minutes before noon she rolled 
smoothly down the mountain road into Cumber¬ 
land and drove at once to a garage. 

“I want the new tire taken off and that old one 
in back put on,” she directed the garage man. 

He examined the old tire and shook his head. 
“Won’t get ten miles on that tire, lady—its gone. 
Better throw it away.” 

“Never mind, I want it put on.” 

The Chicago train was an hour late. When it 

pulled into the long shed Gilchrist’s Pullman came 

285 


286 


The Shaft in the Sky 

to a stop exactly where she stood on the plat¬ 
form so that they were immediately face to face. 
This annoyed her; she was sorry not to have 
stayed in the waiting room. 

They met with a careful friendliness that was 
overdone; both of them knew it. He felt tired 
and heavy and was prepared to dislike himself 
with her. 

“Hope you lunched on the train,” she said as 
they walked to the Stutz, “we’ll have to start this 
minute to reach Washington before it’s too late 
to be out unchaperoned, you know.” 

“Why, where’s Mr. Deering?” 

To her credit, she was sorry for the deception 
about her father—sorry because it seemed inap¬ 
propriate. But one whose motivation comes only 
from love or hate is never nice about means when 
an end is in sight. 

“On the train,” she said quickly, indicating 
the retreating express. “You’re over an hour 
late and he had an appointment in town at six. 
Scolded me all the way up—I mean down—about 
my driving. You don’t mind taking your life 
in your hands, Gilchrist?” 

Within ten minutes they had cleared Cumber¬ 
land and were nosing over the mountain top. On 
the long down grade she turned off the engine 
and they rolled for miles at a good speed. She 


New Heaven 287 

wondered about the tire—the man had said ten 
miles! 

He was talking eagerly now and as if sure 
of her interest. The topics were all impersonal— 
the convention, eccentricities of the Senator, 
Hugh. Of the purring Stutz and the pleasant 
Maryland country they were passing he was ob¬ 
livious. Of course he would be, she thought! 
Wooden man! 

“Yes, Hugh was at Elizabethtown,” she an¬ 
swered one of his questions, “that’s how I heard 
you’d be passing Cumberland.” 

“Why, how could he? I sent that wire to 
Washington!” 

“And what do you think,” she interrupted 
quickly, “they’ve decided to marry next month 
and live in Montana. Hugh has a newspaper of¬ 
fer.” 

“In Montana?” He was suddenly dismayed. 
It was impossible! He had never thought of giv¬ 
ing Hugh up! Why, Hugh was bread and meat 
to him! This was monstrous! A swift tide of 
loneliness swept him. He was growing old! In 
a year he would be thirty—that was middle age! 

At Hagerstown they stopped for a glass of milk 
and were arrested for parking on the wrong side 
of the street. To Gilchrist’s annoyance Alice 
took the lead and talked to the officer so sweetly 
and eloquently that the charmed blue-coat finally 



288 


The Shaft in the Sky 

apologized for his interference. “You can stay- 
on the wrong side as long as you want, Miss,” he 
asserted gallantly. 

Then they were out in the open again, winding 
down a level road through rolling farm lands. 
Twenty miles from town Alice’s foot on the ac¬ 
celerator forced the speedometer to fifty-five 
miles. 

They flashed through a ravine, across a stone 
bridge—and the tire burst! Before she could 
check the swerve they ‘had hurtled through a 
wooden fence and were careering across an open 
field to a final stop some hundred feet from the 
road. 

He never forgot the white horror in her face 
when they were motionless in the bog. “Oh, my 
dear—I—didn’t mean that to happen—a little 
sooner—while we were on that bridge—you—we 
*—oh, its too dreadful!” She clutched his sleeve. 

It was two hours before they pulled the car 
out of the mud with help from the next village. 
When they started again Alice ordered Gilchrist 
to drive. He wondered, knowing her steady 
nerve. But he did not know her guilty conscience. 

At the next town he telegraphed ahead to Dum¬ 
barton Club in Washington for dinner to be re¬ 
served at nine o’clock; they were already three 
hours’ late. As they drove on the sun dropped 
down the hills over their shoulders and blue 



New Heaven 


289 


magic settled on the world. They seemed sus¬ 
pended in limitless splendor and silence as the car 
glided noiselessly into the twilight. She wondered 
if he were bitter because of the convention and 
the Senate, if his cheerfulness meant the same 
desperation it had meant when she had seen him 
dancing at Rauscher’s last March. 

The blue on the hills deepened as the gold in the 
skies faded behind them. She remembered a 
thing she had learned at school—under stipula¬ 
tion: 

“Fail I alone in words or deeds? 

Why, all men strive and who succeeds! 

We rode, it seemed our spirits flew 
Through unknown regions, cities new, 

As the world flashed by on either side.” 

She wished she might quote it to Gilchrist—and 
dared not. 

“Hugh says the League is a dead one.” 

“It is—for a time.” 

“Then there’ll be another war. This one was a 
flat failure!” 

She spoke carelessly but all her attention was 
on his reply. The vibrant, positive note in his 
voice gave her an odd little thrill. 

“There was a time I would have thought so,” 
he said. 

“And now?” 

“Now I know that whatever happens the war 


290 


The Shaft in the Shy 

was not a failure. Its a rotten world to look at, 
yes—we didn't get a better one. But we got the 
material for one—and the knowledge of how to 
make it so. It’s still up to us.” 

He was smiling without looking at her, remem¬ 
bering a day during the convention when a wo¬ 
man had lead one of the McAdoo parades and he 
had thought of Alice and of Joan of Arc. He 
wondered if the Maid of Orleans had more cour¬ 
age, vitality, strength, pugnacity than Alice Deer- 

ing * 

And she was thinking that he was splendid to 
look at, with his long arms on the wheel and his 
compact, keen-featured head silhouetted against 
the sky. She was thinking too that he was wood¬ 
en and that she didn’t care! 

“Not a new earth,” he was saying, “but a new 
heaven. New patience, new conceptions of what 
humanity is capable. Because of the war we know 
at least that heaven is a little higher than we 
thought—and hell a little lower. We know what 
men can do in sacrifice and faith and spiritual ad¬ 
venture. More of what is possible, what desir¬ 
able, what dangerous. We are better equipped to 
adjust the contacts of nation with nation, class 
with class, man with man-” 

“And of man with woman,” she broke in. 
There was a primitive, violent expression in her 
face. “Women won a new place for themselves 




New Heaven 291 

in the war—and won’t be denied their heart’s de- 
sire. 

It was dark now and a few stars were out. The 
speeding Stutz which had seemed a majestic en¬ 
gine of the blue twilight, was rather a silly thing 
under the solemn contemplation of stars—a shal¬ 
low, chattering woman in spangles and beads 
vaunting herself in the face of infinity. 

They glided through a wood where the fresh 
damp air brought a sense of nearness to running 
water. Around a bend in the road came a sturdy 
little brook, starlight glinting its surface, dim 
gray boulders twisting its course. 

Oh, she thought, he is so wooden—he makes 
such speeches—always such speeches! Never 
mind! 

"Gilchrist—stop. Isn’t this nice!” 

The car slowed and halted. A few crickets, 
and silence. 

"It smells like the very bottom of the woods, 
doesn’t it! Oh, I’m so hot and dry.” 

"You must be tired too,” he said, "we can’t 
be more than ten miles from town.” 

His self-consciousness exasperated her. Did 
the beauty of this mean nothing! 

"Lets get out,” she ordered, "I’m going to 
wade.” 

She led the way through a border of under¬ 
brush to the water and jumped boldly out upon 


292 The Shaft in the Sky 

a flattened rock around which the brook sounded 
faintly. When he joined her she was already 
pulling off shoes and stockings. In a moment 
smooth white legs were dipped in the water and 
Alice was sighing in tired ecstacy. 

“Oh, I was so hot, so beastly hot,” she cooed. 

He was silent on the boulder besides her. The 
sense of intimacy in those stockings on the rock, 
with Alice bare-legged on the edge; the sound 
of her voice singing with the brook; the con¬ 
sciousness of the long, adventurous day together 
—were forcing on him what he had learned tor- 
turously to forget. 

“Oh-h-” her subdued laugh was as liquid as 

the brook’s, “my hair’s coming down—it was 
caught in the brush!” A dark mass fell over her 
shoulders and behind her to the rock with a faint 
hint of some delicate scent. “What a mess—now 
it must be combed”—and in a moment she was 
stroking the rich volume of it with her shell 
comb, chanting some weird barbaric monotony 
of her own, feet splashing joyfully. 

“Alice—” he whispered. To him there was 
no thought that she might be acting, that this 
witchery was deliberate—nothing but a tumult 
which began to overpower him. Then, as quickly, 
came a steadying conviction that halted him. 
This woman was far more than the creature of 
smooth legs and sweet-smelling hair singing there 



293 


New Heaven 

on the rock! She was a spiritual dignity; with 
all his will he made himself remember Joan of 
Arc. 

He must hold her hairpins while she bound her 
hair, turn his back while she put on her stockings 
(marvelling why not when they were being taken 
off and putting it down to some practical feature 
of feminine apparel which made it possible to take 
them off more modestly than put them on) ! 

Back in the car again she re-assumed poise and 
reserve, chatting impersonally. But Gilchrist 
was moody, absent-minded. Sometimes he failed 
altogether to catch what she was saying. Old 
dreams were crowding him, old fires burning 
again, old inhibitions losing their importance. 

Half an hour later they reached Georgetown in 
the District and alighted, tired and dusty, at 
Dumbarton which crests the long hill commanding 
Washington and the Potomac. She had never 
been here before; it was not a fashionable club— 
a huge, rambling old house in need of paint, half 
hidden in great trees. 

Inside she bathed the dust and some of the 
weariness from her eyes, while Gilchrist walked 
.across the lawn to the terrace above the tennis 
courts. It was good to stretch his legs! Below, 
inexpressibly beautiful to him, were the city and 
the river. For nature he cared little, but the city 
there was everything, the very core of his world, 


294 


The Shaft in the Sky 

token of a past achieved and a future promised! 
And the Monument, rising clear-lined over the 
trees—the Eternal Finger—was symbol of that 
thing in himself and every man which could for¬ 
give the past where it had failed and face the fu¬ 
ture even when it threatened! Ah, there was his 
sign in the sky—a shaft of fire reaching from an 
old earth to a new heaven. The city around its 
base was his battleground where strong souls 
should kindle, flame, serve the Great Purpose, and 
expire through endless years! He felt as though 
all the toil and turmoil of his twenty-nine years 
had been to bring him to this place to-night. 

Devoutly he resolved to hold the place. And 
yet wondered what this force could be that now 
seemed to crystallize all his soul in one clear mo¬ 
ment, to sound all the old bugles for him, fix him 
his definite place in eternity. 

Across the lawn, from under the great blue 
poplar that hid the house, a gray figure was com¬ 
ing, firm-footed, noiseless. 

Now he knew. All his life he had waited for 
that figure to come. For him—yes—it was the 
Maid of Orleans in shining armour! Behind him 
now were his City, his Monument. As one who 
receives a sacrament he waited, reverent. 


Chapter Twenty-six 



T twenty-five minutes to midnight an in¬ 
sistent telephone rang Hugh from godlike 


sleep. 

“Hello,” he drowsed, half-conscious. 

“-you, Hugh? Damn it man, trying to get 

you half an hour. Get up—quick!” It was Gil¬ 
christ. 

“Why?” He dozed as he spoke. 

“Oh, don’t be an ass—wake up—wake up— 
we’re at Rockville, Alice and I. You’ve got to 
be here—ought to make it in forty minutes— 


taxi! 




Chaos in Gilchrist’s receiver; leaning danger¬ 
ously out of bed to the telephone, Hugh had fallen. 

“All right,” he shouted from the floor, “I’ll be 
there, old scout. Maybe in five minutes!” 

In a moment he was pulling on trousers over 
pajamas, swearing at a truant shoe, buttoning his 
shirt two at a time, laughing softly, 

“Buccaneer—Buccaneer, you win!” 


THE END 



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